The Coming of The Bear
by Norsebjorn
Summary: He is the last male heir to House Mormont, the son of Maege Mormont and the younger brother of Dacey, Joran "The Bear" Mormont is a force to be reckoned with and when he is called to The War of Five Kings with his mother and sister, the Seven Kingdoms won't know what hit them. (Warning: Story has been stopped as of now until time allows for it to continue/be rewritten.)
1. Chapter 1

Joran, The Bear of Bear Island

 **Hello fellow fanfiction readers and authors of all ages, this is going to be my first fanfiction story on this site, so all reviews are accepted (though positive ones will be more welcomed than negatives). So, time to introduce the OC of this story: Joran The Bear. Having watched Game of Thrones and read almost all of the ASoIaF novels (note that I'm still waiting for the Winds of Winter and it is killing me inside), I came up with the idea that there is the need of a northern warrior in the War of Five Kings that would alter the history of Rob Stark for the better, who would be from a house that I really like personally and that I believed would have a perfect role in the history of Westeros. So please, enjoy, tips and** **constructive** **criticism are welcome. I own nothing Game of Thrones/ASoIAF, all work belongs to its respected owner George RR Martin.**

Prologue

Looking out to the northern sea that was the Bay of Ice, a cold north wind bringing the Bay's icy touch to all those that lay hidden behind the tree line far from the shore, stood a tall, grim bearded man dressed in steel plate mail, its chest piece holding the crest belonging to the honorable and ancient house that he was born into, the standing black bear of House Mormont, at the front of three hundred grim faced, chain mail bearing north men and womenwho had been willing to follow him into every battle he had ever fought since his first upon the many shores of Bear Island, a heavy great sword upon his back, a hand and a half longsword upon his left hip, a shield in his left hand and a long axe that had survived every battle just as its master had.

His name was Joran "The Bear" Mormont, second child and the only son of Maege Mormont, and the last male heir of House Mormont and the lands that came with the title.

Upon the northern shore of his homeland, Joran The Bear, along with his trusted war band that had been dubbed by the inhabitants of Bear Island as "The Oath Bound," awaited the arrival of an enemy that had been well known to dare set foot upon the shores of the Island for generations long before his coming.

Wildlings

Having received a raven from the Shadow Tower in the northeast days' prior of a sizeable raiding party sailing south, Joran had gathered his Oath Bound in with little haste needed in the process and he had marched to the northern villages, warning all of the impending danger and requesting that they set sentries along the shore closest to their locations. Also commanding that the villages prepare themselves for attacks in case his warriors failed to stop the invaders, however many there were coming from Beyond the Wall, setting up defenses accordingly and arming themselves as such. But, as grim as his commands had been to each village elder had been when spoken, Joran was confident that his force was enough for any foe, anytime, and anywhere.

Luckily, news of the Wildlings coming had been sounded by a sentry that had been placed in the center north shore of Bear Island. But, instead of lighting signal fires that had been place all around the Island for generations, Joran had commanded that each sentry only return straight to him if they were to see anything. Stating flatly to all those who questioned his command that if they lit the fires, the Wildlings would know that _they_ knew that they were coming, and he had decided that it was better to destroy the raiders where they were sure to land so that if any were to live, they wouldn't dare try to attack Bear Island again.

So, in less than two hours before the raiders were to arrive upon the northern shore, Joran had reached the forest just south of the shore, spreading his Oath Bound out along the tree line that curved further inland, knowing that if timed just right, a surprise attack of his force could envelope the Wildlings, regardless of how numerous they were.

And in two hours, Joran and his warriors had spotted the many small dots that were out in The Bay. Counting as best he could, judging from the distance, The Bear had counted ten to twelve vessels out on the water that were approaching rapidly.

 _Good weather today,_ Joran thought to himself, admiring the rare blue skies and lack of mist upon the water as the boats drew closer and closer to shore, _hopefully it will be an even better fight._

For five years, since he had come of age to manhood, Joran had defended the shores of Bear Island with his life. He had fought everyone from Wildlings just like the ones that were coming now from the north, to random Ironborn raiders that would come from the south, daring to defy the King's peace and make a name for themselves, only for their axes to meet his and their bodies to be delivered back to their families upon his own orders if they were anyone of note. Though, both factions had the same goals, gain honor and spoils from raiding, the outcomes that they believed to be unlikely were all destined by The Bear and his axe.

Although he relished battle, Joran knew that if possible, it would be wiser to avoid conflicts that would harm his people. Bear Island, a token stolen by The Starks from the Ironborn Kings of old, had been awash with conflict since House Mormont had been given it by The Kings of Winter in the past. For generations of Mormonts past, conflict seemed to come from everywhere when it came to the Island, bringing grief to its people when they were unsuspecting of each raid that had come before. Lives lost, what wealth each of the smallfolk had lost, the wrongful enslavement of men women and children if they hadn't been saved by their liege lords of the past.

Joran was the Mormont that would be the liege that said enough. If he could gain peace for his families Island through means less bloody than battle, he would take them. If not, then he would give the world a reason to leave Bear Island alone.

"Milord," spoke up Joran's lieutenant, Garratt The Grey, bringing the lord ling out of his distant thoughts on peace with blood, "the boats will be here in minutes."

Nodding, his eyes never leaving the objects that approached ever closer, Joran asked his man, "are the archers in place?"

"Aye milord," Garratt answered confidently.

"The pike men, are their spears ready?"

"Aye milord."

"And the rest of our brothers and sisters," Joran asked, looking over his shoulder towards Garratt, "are their swords and axes sharpened for the fight to come?"

"Sharper milord," Garratt said, patting his own longsword at his hip, "they have all been briefed on the plan, not to move until you sound the signal."

Nodding again to signal his approval, Joran looked at the horn that hung from his belt, opposite his sword, a pale ox horn that would signal his warriors attack and the raiders doom.

"Good Garratt," Joran said, a grim smile showing from his beard, the raiders boats closer now, "it shall be a good fight."

"As they all are milord," Garratt said before giving a curt nod and moving back to the line that stood beyond the tree line.

His icy blue eyes watching as the raiders boats finally were close enough for the occupants to disembark into the cold water to pull their vessels to shore, Joran The Bear followed Garratt to the center line of his war band.

…

Peering this way and that across the shore and tree line of the Island, Hrogvar The Wild, a large and grizzly bearded man of the Free Folk, the fur pelts upon his body soaked from when he had jumped from his boat into the cold northern water, his armor underneath, stolen from a Crow he had killed two winters past, dripping water upon the sands of the shore, inspected each direction for any sign of life that he meant to take. A wooden hide shield held in his left hand and his short iron sword that he had named Claw, taken from the same Crow, on his belt, the Free Folk leader was hungry for both food and blood after days floating in the Bay of Ice. And if he did not get one, the other, or both this day, he would be sure to extract what he needed from the rest of his group.

They were one hundred Free men and women strong, though they had been one hundred and fifty before leaving the Lands Beyond the Wall, part of the force being lost to the Bay, the majority had made it.

That was good to Hrogvar, for the more people he had, the better chances of surviving on their journey south.

He had not come for riches, steel and women to steal from this damned Island, though as appealing as the latter was to the Freeman he didn't have time. No, he and those following him had only a day, two at the most, and a couple hours at the least to rest and raid for supplies before getting back out to sea. Granted, Hrogvar would have needed longer to get either of these, regardless if he had come south via over the Wall or around it by boat, sadly, he had to work with what time that he and those with him had.

They had to get south, as far south as south goes.

They had to get away from the cold, away from the dead that could walk, and from, The Others, as fast as their boats and legs could go.

Speaking in the Old Tongue to a few of his companions, pointing here and there where they could place sentries for their position, telling them to decide who was going to stay with the boats and who would come with him to try and find something to steel that could be eaten, Hrogvar tasked out those that had been willing to follow him south to escape the cold death that had come to the north accordingly.

 _Damn The White Walkers,_ Hrogvar cursed in his mind, angered by the fact that he was running, _running,_ from death itself on two legs that could wield ice capable of shattering steel. He had never run, not from anyone, be it man or beast, he had faced them all down many a time, from the Thenns to the Horn Foots, from the white bears to shadow cats, hell, he had even stared down a giant once and lived to tell the tale. The fact that he was running away now, upset him greatly

 _And Damn Mance Rayder,_ Hrogvar thought, a growl escaping his lips, _damned_ crow _, convincing everyone that he could protect them, and how, by attacking the damned,_ fucking _, Wall._ Granted, the Freeman had never in his life ever feared The Wall, he gladly climbed it over and over again, getting to the other side with little trouble due to his strength with the climbing gear. But to attack it, openly, with that many people, no matter how ingenious Mance's plan was to get through by attacking both sides at once, it felt like an invitation for the Crows to just come and fuck them in the arse if anyone asked Hrogvar.

Of those that felt the same as he, many had come with him south, a few of them didn't make it this far, majority did, but still, the lives lost weighed heavily on Hrogvar's mind.

"Those going and staying have been chosen Hrog," came the voice of The Wild's old childhood friend in the Old Tongue, Ororner Eagle Eye, stepping up to his side, "we are waiting on you now to lead us."

"Aye," Hrogvar said, gripping his short sword and sliding it back and forth in its scabbard to be sure that the blade hadn't frozen stuck inside, and finding that it slid in and out rather well, sheathed it completely before continuing, "be sure that those coming have everything they ne-."

Before he could finish instructing Ororner, Hrogvar The Wild watched as an arrow, shot from the tree line buried itself into his friend's chest, killing him instantly.

Then, turning back to where he had seen the arrow come from, Hrogvar could only listen as a horn blew in the distance and watch as a shower of arrows flew from the woods into the air, right towards the Free Folk.

"Attack!" Hrogvar bellowed to all of the men and women behind him, bringing up his shield to protect himself from the shower of arrows that came down from the sky.

Feeling as the shafts buried themselves into his shield, puncturing the through the leather and wood, the Freeman could hear men and women all falling onto the sandy shore behind him, some yelling in pain before collapsing dead, others having the balls to shut up, fell silently like sacks of potatoes.

After hearing the last arrow fall, Hrogvar dared a peak over his shield to find the site of hundreds of roaring southerners charging out of the forest right at them.

"To me!" Hrogvar roared over his shoulder to the Free Folk that were still alive after the first volley. Drawing his short sword and getting into a battle stance, awaiting the oncoming force of southern cunts that had been waiting for them as his brethren formed a line of leather, fur, wood, stone, and steel alongside him.

"Let's show these damned southern milk drinkers that we shall not die without a fight," Hrogvar yelled, gaining a menagerie of battle cries, howls and screams from every man and woman beside him.

"Charge!"

What was left of the one hundred Free Folk ran at their southern enemy, outnumbered, out trained, tired, and hungry.

But they would die before they admitted it.

Hrogvar would be getting at least one of the things he had been hungry for today.

…

End Prologue


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1: Dark Wings, Darker Words

 **Hello and greetings everyone, I'm back with the next chapter in the story of Joran The Bear. Special thanks going out to all of the many people who gave my story a chance, and a big shout out to Clues2 for the first encouraging review, thank you. Now, time to get back to the show. Note: I do not own anything Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, all rights and titles to the original stories belong to the respected owner, George RR Martin.**

 **Joran**

Breathing deeply, his vision red with the Battle Rage, Joran, trying to regain his calm composure and cool demeanor, stood over the last foe to be felled by his long axe, the weapons blade still deeply imbedded into the Wildlings exposed chest.

Looking around him, Joran beheld the rest of The Oath Bound finishing off what was left of the force of Wildlings that had landed, some even chasing after the random one or two that made an attempt to flee the battlefield to escape with their lives. The Wildlings had been less in number than expected, but it mattered little to the Mormont, as far as he was concerned, they had come thinking that their small force was going to take away from the north men what they had worked to earn their livings. Sadly, Joran had reminded them with blade and battle that they were not an easy people when it came to stealing from them.

The red haze of battle leaving him little by little with every breath he took, The Bear removed his axe from his fallen enemy, his actions causing the wound to make a sucking sound as the axe blade was removed, as though the weapon head had belonged in the body of the life it had taken. Blood coating his weapons blade, Joran knelt down to the corpse of the Wildling and ripping away some of the man's clothing, wiped the edge of his weapon clean of the bodily liquid. Then, using the same makeshift rag to wipe away the dirt and blood that had come to cover his unprotected face, The Bear then tossed the cloth back to the earth and began to move around the battle field to find his man Garratt.

After a brief time of walking about past Wildling dead, counting none of his warriors among them, Joran found Garratt, his weapon drawn and bloody in one hand, while in the other was what appeared to be a short sword, with three other Oath Bound dragging one Wildling that had survived the battle towards him. Making his way in their direction to cut the time in half of moving their prisoner, The Bear beheld a Wildling that was rather well armored for who his people referred to as savages. Underneath a variety of animal skins to protect against the northern cold that had been slashed and torn during the battle, was ring mail, though rather rusted by the look of it, no doubt from poor care by its owner, a man with a wild beard and disheveled long hair that had looked to be braided but now fell freely over the man's shoulders and this way and that as he struggled against his captors.

"Garratt," Joran said, coming to a stop before his second in command and his prisoner, while planting the butt of his axe haft into the sand of the beach and placing his hands over the head in a leaning fashion as he observed the Wildling.

"Milord," Garratt greeted Joran with that curt nod of his, "it was as you said before, it was a good battle, we lost none of our brothers or sisters during the fight, thank the Gods, and the Wildlings payed dearly for ever landing here."

"And this one's exception?" Joran asked, gesturing to the Wildling with a finger, his foe forced to his knees by the other three Oath Bound warriors before their lord.

"From what we can tell milord," Garratt said before gesturing to the prisoner with his sword, "this one seems to have been the leader of the rabble that landed here, due to his dress and armor, not to mention the weapon that he carried."

Garratt lifted the short sword in his hand hilt first to Joran, who took it, the hilt fitting in his one hand perfectly.

Looking over the piece, Joran noticed that unlike the stolen ring mail that the Wildling had on, his weapon appeared to be in better shape and condition. The blade lacked any rust and shone clean in the morning light of the day, apparently having been unable to strike down any of his warriors during the fight. Believing it a shame that the piece had come to the hands of a murdering Wildling, Joran had to admit that his foe at least had some taste when it came to castle forge steel.

"His name," Joran asked Garratt, his eyes never moving to the Wildling raider.

"He has yet to give it milord," Garratt simply put.

"Really," Joran said, his gaze finally turning back to the Wildling before him, "I suppose I should give it a try then in asking him, for before I execute him for crimes against The North, I would like to know his name before I send him off to the Gods."

"As you wish milord," Garratt said with another nod.

Moving down to his enemy's eye level as though he were a stubborn youth in need of a scolding, Joran in a squatting position, one hand on his axe while the other was holding the short sword, his eyes boring into the defeated, asked the Wildling, "what is your name?"

Glaring back at Joran, with eyes full of rage, the Wildling growled in the Common tongue, "fuck you!"

"Now, now," Joran said in curt fashion, "that is no way to talk to your host, especially when he has seen fit to grant you a few more minutes of life before he sends you to the Gods."

"Piss off," the Wildling spat before Garratt punched him square in the jaw, the force of the blow causing the kneeling man's head to snap the opposite direction.

"Garratt, please," Joran said, giving his lieutenant a quick look before continuing on with his captive, "forgive my man, he is not as patient as I am when it comes to insults that have little meaning to me personally."

The Wildling, fresh blood flowing down into his wild beard from where Garratt had struck him, returned his glare to Joran.

"Now, I ask again," Joran began again, his calm stare unwavering against his enemy, " _what_ is your name?"

After a pause, briefly glimpsing around as if searching for an escape that did not present itself to him, the Wildling leader answered, "Hrogvar."

"There," Joran said, a small smile forming on his lips, "was that so hard?"

Glimpsing around a second time, the Wildling known as Hrogvar spoke again, "how did you know we were coming, Hm, did the Crows tell you?"

Nodding, Joran never believing a wildling could be intelligent felt surprised at the fact that this one was, to a degree at the least, "aye, we had received word about your coming, although, the Watch had given us word that there were one hundred and fifty of you coming south, not one hundred."

"Lost some of the boats in the Bay," Hrogvar said, a hint of sadness causing his growl to falter, "and the good people on them."

"It sounds as though you actually care," Joran said calmly, "knowing as you are raiders, it always occurred to me that, the less bodies in a raiding party, the greater portions of the spoils for all."

Spitting out some of the blood in his mouth onto the sand before Joran, Hrogvar, his growling speech returning to him and all softness leaving, "we did not come here to raid you, you fucking prat!"

Before Garratt could strike Hrogvar again for his disrespect, Joran raised the hand that held the short sword, halting his actions.

"If you didn't come here to raid," Joran asked, rather shocked of hearing of a Wildling that didn't come south to raid, and finding it rather curious, "why did you come south?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Hrogvar said flatly, "all of you southern milk drinkers here in your warm lands have forgotten most of the Old Ways anyway, how could you believe me if I were to speak of them to you now, eh?"

Chuckling a little at the fact that someone would think that Bear Island was warm, Joran thought slightly better of Hrogvar and said plainly, "not all people that you call _southerners_ have forgotten the Old Ways Wildling, me and my men here hold true to them and have ever since we were born. But what reason could the Old Ways have brought you south, if not to raid?"

Hrogvar, disturbed by the fact that his captor would laugh at his words, turned his glare to the sand at his feet before answering in a voice that seemed to flow with what Joran could tell as fear, "there are…things…in the lands Beyond the Wall. They hunt in the night. Killing anyone they come across. Men, women…children. They are followed by, the corpses of those they have killed. Giving them lifeless eyes of blue, as cold as death, as cold as their masters."

Finding what Hrogvar was telling him rather, chilling, Joran, his gaze hardening towards the captive before him, asked, "and who pray tell, are the names of these, 'masters of corpses?'"

His eyes returning to Joran's, Hrogvar answered coldly, "The White Walkers."

At his answer, Garratt and the three other Oath Bound warriors laughed out loud, believing that they had a crazy Wildling on their hands, one that didn't come to raid and was running away from White Walkers, and japing that he was probably running from grumpkins and snarks as well.

They all laughed, but Joran didn't.

Holding Hrogvar's cold stare, Joran had a feeling that the man spoke truth, or at least the truth of what he had seen. And if what he had seen was beyond The Wall, The Bear of Bear Island could only speculate if what the Wildling had seen was true, if at all feasible.

"The Walkers have been dead for thousands of years," Joran said grimly, ending his men's laughter, "how do I know that what you tell me is true, and not just a quick lie to grant you a few more moments of life."

"After all that I have seen," Hrogvar said, his voice and eyes unwavering before the inquisitive stare of Joran, "all that I have done to survive, I have nothing left but my life, and even now, I am about to lose that too. "But in my final moments, I would like to know that I gave the world a final warning before death came to get me."

"You are a brave man," Joran said with a nod, meaning those words, always having respected past enemies, for they had always left what homes they had, knowing that there was a chance that they would never go back to them.

But this time, it sounded as though this one enemy didn't have a home to return to, and seemed to welcome death freely in his final moments.

Flipping the short sword over in his hand so that the blade came to land in his palm, Joran presented it to Garratt who received it back solemnly, knowing full well what was next to come.

Standing, Joran looked to the three men holding Hrogvar and standing up, commanded, "hold him still, for this warrior deserves the honor of a painless death for his bravery in the face of our undefeated force. And I intend for the last thing for him to remember is a short pain, not a prolonged one."

Nodding, the three warriors followed up each with an "aye milord," before taking hold of Hrogvar and keeping him firm for what was to come next.

Unmoving though, the Wildling stared blankly to the sandy earth awaiting Joran's axe to send him to his Gods.

Moving to where he could have easy access to Hrogvar's neck when he was to swing his axe, Joran, replacing the butt of the haft into the sand, clasped the head with both of his hands as he looked down at his weapon and speaking as if he was praying, said, "in the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and in the name of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of The North, I their humble servant, Joran of House Mormont, The Bear of Bear Island, sentence you to die."

"Do you have any last words, Hrogvar?"

Having repeated the question to every battle captive, murderer, and rapist that he had ever had to execute personally, as the Old Ways went _He who passed the sentence, should swing the sword_ , Joran had always seen it fair to offer those before his axe a final request, save for them live.

Turning his gaze from the earth and up to his executioner, Hrogvar spoke his only request, "after you have finished with me, _Bear_ of Bear Island, I only ask that you burn my body, and those of my brethren that you slew this day. So that in the future, we do not come back to life to be enslaved by those who I have spoken of."

Nodding, Joran promised to Hrogvar, "I shall grant your request."

When Hrogvar returned his stare to the earth, Joran, just like so many times before, lifted his axe and placing the blade upon the neck of the brave man before him to mark his next strike's fall, lifted it again and in a quick and hard stroke with enough power to shatter stone, The Bear delivered his final judgement.

…

 **Dacey**

Looking out into the grey morning from the carved doorway of Mormont Keep, a tall woman, garbed ina dress of green silk, a plain leather belt draped around her hips and a bear pelt scarf adorning her shoulders and neck against the chill of her home, stood waiting for the return of her younger brother Joran.

"Dacey!" called the voice of her lady mother Maege from her place next to the great hearth within The Keep, "close the damned door before you let all the warmth out and all the cold in!"

Huffing out an irritated sigh, Dacey Mormont, eldest child of Maege Mormont, forcing herself to turn away from the cold morning, returned to the inside of the keep, closing the carved door, which held the portrait of the woman dressed in a bear skin, holding her suckling babe and axe at the ready, moved back to the table where her many sisters sat eating their breakfasts next to the roaring hearth.

"Mother," Dacey began as she made her way back to the table and her seat next to Maege, "shouldn't we send out a few scouts to check and see how Joran is fairing, it has been three days now and we haven't received any word from him?"

Maege Mormont, the She Bear of Bear Island, a grey haired and buxom woman in a green dress of her own, removed her eyes from her plate of sausage, bacon and eggs to look at her eldest child, answering her daughter plainly, "no word is better than bad word Dacey. As is your younger brother's way, he prefers to have all of his men with him in case the force he goes to subdue is greater than his own. And besides, it's just Wildlings he's off dealing with, not the Iron Fleet."

Still unmoved by her mother's reassuring words, Dacey returned to her own breakfast plate, the worry still etched in her beautiful features.

Not failing to notice her child's expression, Maege put a withered callus hand upon Dacey's and giving it a reassuring squeeze said, "don't worry Dacey. I'm sure that Joran is still alright. He is a Mormont after all, and not to mention a Mormont that can be given the title of The Bear with respect. You should give him more credit for how he handles every mission he goes on to protect Bear Island and the people."

With all of her sisters at the table nodding and giving voice to agreeing with their mother, Dacey felt better at ease. She knew her younger brother was rightly titled, for he had earned his nickname The Bear time and time again against those who would dare threaten their home. But still, as the eldest sibling, Dacey couldn't help but to worry about her blood.

Her thoughts interrupted by the approach of their Maester, Samn Lowther, an aged man dressed in robes of grey, his back bent from the weight of the chain that adorned his neck, marking his professional office.

"My Lady Mage," Samn said, coming to stand next to his seated liege as she ate, "a raven has just arrived…from Winterfell."

Halting in her breakfast, Maege looked up at Samn and the Maester presented a roll of parchment to her.

When she took it, without even opening it, Maege simply said the old saying, "Dark Wings, Dark Words."

All of the daughters of the She Bear waited silently until she had opened and read the letter from Winterfell before inquiring what it was about.

Watching as her mother read and quickly reread the letter again and again, Dacey wondered what could have gotten the blood of Maege, the She Bear, in such a state of what appeared to be, worry.

Looking up from the parchment and returning it to the hands of Maester Samn, Maege Mormont turned her gaze to all of her daughters and said sternly, "King Robert is dead. Our Lord Eddard Stark has been imprisoned, under the accusation of treason by the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister and her son, the Boy King Joffrey. Ned's heir, Robb Stark, has called his bannermen…including me, to Winterfell with as many men as I can muster to save his father."

A wave of shock cascading over the dining table, the daughters of Maege could only imagine how such an accusation against their liege lord, whose honor knew no bounds, could come to pass and what this would mean for them.

And Dacey could only think, _they should rename the saying 'Dark Wings, Darker Words.'_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2: The Bear's Disgrace and A Homecoming Surprise

 **Hi everybody, big thank out to all of the people who have viewed the story so far, another big thanks to those who favorited it and started following. Reminds me that people actually like what I'm putting out, so I hope to not disappoint you all with where I plan on taking Joran in the World of Ice and Fire. Now, before anyone has the chance to get confused at any point during the focus of this next chapter, I want to for warn you guys and gals that, I thought that a chapter revealing the back story to Joran would be fitting for the character, to kind of try and give you all a picture as to how he came to be the way he is and what drives him to act the way he does and strive to become the heir that Bear Island and House Mormont disserves. Again, other than the fictional character Joran The Bear, I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, those works and the original characters belonging to them are the property of George RR Martin respectively. Enjoy!**

Riding at the head of his three hundred Oath Bound, Joran atop his trusted mare Kisha, a brown horse as strong as she was fast, his weapons and armor traded for a thick set of winter clothing and a bear skin to protect himself from the cold, led his warriors home to Mormont's Keep for a well-earned dinner and rest for their success in beating the raiders.

Food and warmth was the least that he could do for the men and women following him, as their liege lord, Joran provided both willingly to his trusted company. It would be a grave mistake for a lord or lady of The North to ignore the needs of their warriors, bad luck in the young Lord's mind. For in Joran's mind, and hopefully the mind of all the rest of the world if possible, if a lord did not take care of those who served him, then there would be no honor in serving at all, hence taking their leave of the man and moving on to another lord's holdfast.

And, considering how terrible the weather and conditions were on Bear Island asides from the raiders that threatened them constantly, Joran could never cease to be amazed that The Oath Bound remained intact after so long in his service.

But, then again, honorable lord's breath strength and loyalty to those who follow him.

Sadly, however, that hadn't been the case years ago, when it came to a certain, _member_ , of the House of Mormont.

A member who was exiled now, under pain of death should he return, who went by the name of Jorah Mormont.

 _Damned fool,_ Joran thought, the memory of his kinsman and namesake always fresh in his mind, as well as the memory of the last time that he had seen him.

The day he had left.

…

 _Five Years Earlier_

Early in the day, enjoying a rather simple lunch of meat gruel and some watered down ale next to the great hearth within the wooden halls of Mormont Keep, surrounded by his sisters as they talked and ate alongside him of the happenings of the day. Dacey and Alysane to his left, _still_ , arguing over who had won the sparring match that the two had enacted earlier that day, Lyra at his direct right humming calmly to herself, ignoring the noise that her elder sisters made while she drew the knife that Joran had gifted her for her recent name day over a whetstone, and running around the great hearth, Jorelle chased after Lyanna playfully in a game of tag, being able to drone out the noise that Dacey and Alysane produced with laughter. All in all, it was a good afternoon in the Keep, and Joran, smiling at the sight of his two youngest sisters running around playing, chewed his gruel happily for his family.

But, like most days, the happiness just couldn't last.

" _DON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE, JORAH,"_ came the shrieking cries of feigned sadness coming from the direction of the second story floor of the Keep above where the younger Mormonts sat, ate, and played.

" _No, no Lynesse, it isn't that, I swear to you it isn't_ ," the pleading, pathetic voice of Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island through the wooden floor, " _I just can't afford to get you all that you desire my sweet, that's all_."

" _THAT'S ALL!"_ Lynesse Hightower, or _The Southern Bitch_ Joran had dubbed her to the Mormont bannermen, well away from where his sisters and especially mother, could hear him, screamed even louder at her Lord husband, " _Jorah, you are the Lord of Bear Island,_ The Lord, _you're supposed to be rich, how do you expect me to live in this, this wooden keep that_ reeks _of filth no matter where I go and be happy here."_

"Well, if you think it is so bad here," Joran mumbled to himself out loud, grabbing his cup full of ale and taking a quick sip before continuing, "maybe you should have thought about that before you married that spineless cousin of mine."

The punch that came from Dacey was expected, granted it stung a little, Joran wasn't going to take back his words though, because he meant them.

Jorah Mormont, one of the only northern knights of Westeros, one of the heroes of The Greyjoy Rebellion, made exclusively famous after the one tourney where he unhorsed Jaime Lannister the King slayer, was allowing his wife to belittle his houses ancestral home. Not to mention where his family could hear her, indecency, and with his aunt Maege Mormont napping at this hour, Joran could only imagine if his mother was awake and the She Bear's wrath that would follow suit.

" _Lynesse,"_ Jorah continued, collectively yet still sounding rather pathetic to his cousins bellow him, " _I know that life here is,_ different, _from what you are used to at Old Town, but give me some time and I can get some money for anything you need."_

Shaking his head, Joran dipped his wooden spoon into his bowl of gruel and tipping it so the food would just fall back into the bowl, Joran speculated if there was anything left to actually _buy_ anything with.

Ever since the coming of the slender, brown haired Hightower woman a few months prior, Mormont Keep had been slowly bleeding out funds to feed her insatiable appetite. She demanded everything: gold, jewelry, dresses, and, the new thing on the list as of recently, _more servants._ Having already scared away the majority of the serving men and women who worked for the Mormont family and already having brought them to near poverty from her wants, Lynesse Hightower had become an annoyance to Joran, Maege, and Dacey, though she wouldn't admit it straight to the face of her cousin and lord Jorah as her brother and mother would, that they wished to be rid of if at all possible.

Seven Hells, Joran had even considered just suffocating the woman with her own pillow to save them all the trouble of her presence.

" _What about the food stores, Hm,"_ Joran heard Lynesse ask above, " _surly a good portion of the food will give us some coin at least to get what I need."_

At that moment, Joran swore to himself that the moment he witnessed his cousin or that woman ever go near their food larder in the future days to come, he was going to beat some bloody sense into his lord and drag his lady by her hair back to her quarters, locking her up for good measure in the process. Just like all other northern houses, food was a precious thing to them, it was the one thing that they could save for when the long winter came and food was commonly known as the deciding factor of life and death to a lord's household. And by the Old Gods, Joran would rather be sent to The Wall for the murder of Lynesse Hightower before he let the bitch take away any of his family's food.

" _You know I cannot do that Lynesse,"_ Jorah said, Joran somewhat relieved at what balls, however little, that the man had finally produced, " _give be a week, and I promise you we will have more than enough funds to get you what you want."_

 _It would be a wonder if she actually 'needed' anything rather than 'wanted' everything that was of consequence to her survival,_ Joran thought bitterly, speculating what kind of cushioned life the Hightower woman left behind to come to the cold North.

" _Fine,"_ he heard Lynesse Hightower, now a calmer woman, say in that way she did before she would always say her next sentence, " _but until I get what_ I _want, you, my lord, won't be getting what_ you _want."_

"Hahahaha!" Joran could only laugh out loud at the statement, because for his cousin it was all too horribly true. She had been here for three months now, and whenever she didn't get what she desired from her husband when she wanted it, she would deny him from her bed and more than once, the young man had usually found his cousin Jorah passed out next to the great hearth, snoring soundly in the mornings. And from how long they had been married, Joran could only speculate the last time that he had bedded his wife, even believing that the last time was during the bedding ceremony back at Hightower, which was just too good to be true if so.

" _Thank you my love_ ," Jorah said, speaking with a tone of happiness that Joran could tell was forced, ending the annoyance that had disturbed the Mormont siblings from their afternoon peace.

Scooping up some more of his gruel, Joran took a bite, giving a shake of his head as he said with a mouthful, "I'm amazed that mother isn't awake after all that."

" _JORAH!"_ came the vicious bellow of Maege Mormont, the She Bear having been awakened by the argument of the Lord of Mormont and his lady wife.

Forcing his food to stay down, Joran joined his sisters in a laugh at the sound of their mother baring down on her nephew for the annoyance.

…

Later that week, Jorah Mormont had done well on his promise to his wife the Lady Hightower. Buying her a fresh pair of servants, along with some imported perfumes from Essos that would have cost a fortune for their purchase, by any house for that matter. And for a brief time, Mormont Keep had been left in peace from the arguments of the very, unhappy couple.

Sadly, the peace would not last for long.

One day, while in the training yard outside of the wooden Keep, enjoying the sparring session that his cousin Jorah had invited him too to see if Joran had learned anything, his mother Maege interrupted the contest, a crumpled letter in a fist as she took Jorah to the side of the Keep away from her son.

Picking up his practice with the Master-at-Arms known as Karson briefly, Joran, troubled by the way that his mother had looked when she had grabbed Jorah, ended the practice early and moved close enough to where he could hear their conversation next to the Keep, but remaining inconspicuous as he listened.

"…Jorah, this is from the Iron Bank," Maege said to her nephew gesturing at the letter before showing it to Jorah without giving it to him, "and having read it, it is an interesting letter, with a very sizeable sum with the most peculiar word that I have ever seen, directed towards a Mormont, and that word is 'owed.'"

"Keep your voice down aunt," Jorah said, sounding rather nervous, as what few household men and women of Mormont Keep passed them by to move on to other duties, "it isn't what it looks like."

"Jorah," The She Bear growled, "how can it not be what it looks like. You've barrowed money from The Iron Bank of Braavos. Not to mention, _this_ much. What were you thinking."

"We needed the money Maege," Jorah said flatly, almost in a growl.

" _We,"_ Maege Mormont asked her nephew, "or is it _she._ Because for some odd reason, none of the food stores have been added to, there hasn't been any addition to the household staff, save for those of your wives chambers, and the only difference there has been to the Keep has been a ghastly odor ranking the hallways that all lead back to the same place."

Watching as his cousin, wiping a hand over his mouth, state plainly to his aunt, "she is my wife."

"If she is your wife then why hasn't there been an announcement that she is with child yet, Hm?"

Joran wondered the same thing. This month marked the fourth of his cousin's marriage. Surely by now there would have been some signs of Lynesse being with child, at the very least she could have at least begun to be a bit hungrier when she took their meals with them to fake it.

"We've tried," Jorah said, now looking over his shoulder as though he was expecting a knife in the back.

"Not hard enough apparently," Maege said, then stepping closer to Jorah, she continued in a lower voice, "don't think I haven't seen the way that she has been treating you. Kicking you out of the bed that you share. Refusing to let you touch her, let alone speak to her save for when _she_ wants something."

Watching as Maege thrust the letter into her nephew's chest for him to take, the last words that Joran heard his mother speak to Jorah, was not so much a request as it was a demand, "fix this, now!

…

A week had passed since that day, and Joran could only speculate what Jorah had done to remedy the problem that now faced their house.

Granted, Joran wasn't ignorant to the fact that he had been born into a poor house, however ancient and honorable they were, the truth was plain as day due to where they lived. What frightened him the most though, was a poor house becoming poorer due to one, single, spoiled woman, who had his cousin wrapped around her finger. In Joran's mind, Jorah had to snap out of it, before worse came of the matter.

Little did he know, that worse would come.

For when the majority of the household staff had left Mormont Keep due to the Hightower woman, including some of the guards that were used to patrol the surrounding forests that graced the area, poachers had been spotted random times hunting on Mormont lands only to disappear into the brush, due to the sole fact that there hadn't been enough men patrolling to chase them down.

At the fact that there were poachers on his land, Jorah had felt insulted by the audacity of the men responsible, and after a few days of diligent planning, he set a trap for them.

The day that he had set out with what was left of the household guard to hunt down the poachers, Jorah had left Joran to protect the Keep, by himself, with the girls and his mother.

It had taken a week for Jorah to return, but when he did, there was no sign of any poachers with him to tri for their crime.

When approached about it, Jorah had simply put that, he had conducted the trial and executions elsewhere on Bear Island, and that the poachers had been taken care of regardless of the publicity of it all.

It wasn't long though when a raven had brought word to Mormont Keep about what had really happened.

On that day, Jorah had left with Lynesse, telling everyone that they were going riding for a while, and that they wouldn't be long in returning. They had taken all of Lynesse's servants with them, saying that they were bringing them along in case their services were required, for a picnic if they found someplace suitable. After they left, Joran had felt a strange feeling of suspicion overcome him, and he couldn't place his finger on it as he watched his cousin casually ride off with Lynesse.

Pushing aside the feeling, Joran went to the first place that he knew he wasn't allowed into when his cousin was away. And that was his study. Where the prize of House Mormont would be sitting unprotected, just waiting to be held by his greedy hands.

Making his way to his cousin's rooms, Joran made himself as inconspicuous as possible when making his way there. When he entered though, he found the place rather disheveled, as if Jorah had meant to leave in a hurry for his picnic. Sadly, the prize wasn't there, and if it was in the messy room, Joran would have to take his time in searching for it if he wanted a glimpse.

Figuring that there would be another time to draw and hold Longclaw, Joran moved to leave when he felt something crunch under his boot. Looking down at what he had stepped on, he noticed that it was a simple piece of parchment, which held grey wax upon it. With a direwolf seal upon it.

Quickly picking up the letter, Joran had read it twice and then thrice before he sprang into action.

Crumpling up the letter and burying deep in the pocket of his pants, Joran raced out of Mormont Keep and to the stables to where he had Kisha tethered. Saddling and bridling her as quick as he could manage on his own, the young Mormont rode her in the same direction that Jorah and Lynesse had gone, west.

"Come on Kisha," Joran urged his steed faster on towards the outlying villages on the western coast, "come on, we need to get to them before they leave."

Kisha galloped at arguably the fastest pace that Joran ever thought was possible for a northern horse to go, reaching the port village that lay on the western edge of Bear Island in little more than two hours' time.

Entering the village that he knew as West Port, Joran leapt from Kisha and pumping his legs as hard as he could, raced for the docks.

Reaching them in less than five minute's time, Joran came to a hard stop as he skimmed everywhere for a vessel that appeared to be being loaded with passengers.

Luckily, the Gods had been on his side, finding such a vessel and making his way towards it, he spotted Jorah upon the dock looking on as his wife and her servants boarded before him.

"Jorah!" Joran yelled, bringing his cousins gaze to him.

Coming to a halt before Jorah, Joran, sweating in the cold air of the day, bending over to try and catch his breath, looked upon his cousin. The man had dressed rather warmly for the sea voyage, having discarded his green cloak that held the sigil of House Mormont for a simple black one that matched the rest of his grey attire well. And upon his belt hung two objects, a dagger on his right hip, and Longclaw, the valyrian steel bastard sword of House Mormont, upon his left.

"What are you doing here Joran," Jorah demanded harshly of his cousin.

His breathing slowing back down to normal, Joran stood straight up when he spoke, "Jorah, I know…what you did with the poachers. Your guardsmen, they sold you out to Lord Stark about you selling them off for their crimes…instead of giving them the death penalty. You don't have to leave Jorah, we can say that, we were only doing what we thought was, a sensible punishment out to poachers. Lord Stark will understand, I know it."

"You put too much faith in a lord you have never even met before Joran," Jorah said, his harsh tone forgotten, his eyes growing tender towards his cousin. "And there is no _we_ , in this matter Joran. Though I appreciate your loyalty and that you would protect me from the punishment to a crime I committed willingly. I could not ask you to do so. For the moment I present myself to face Lord Stark's justice, is the moment I sign my own death warrant or take The Black like my father, and I can do neither of those choices Joran."

"You are a knight," Joran said, incredulously at what he was hearing from his cousin, "you spoke the vows, and more than that you are Lord Mormont of Bear Island, those titles, you must honor them both for what they are, what you are, and that is an honorable man Jorah!"

Smiling at Joran, Jorah said plainly to him, "you know, I told myself that same thing, over and over again as I was leading the poachers to where I was meeting the slave owners to auction them off. I had hoped that, those words would stop me from doing what I did, wrongfully so, to those men who were once free. And you say that I am honorable Joran, but I lost my honor the day I made the choice of condemning those men to slavery."

With the last word, Jorah Mormont moved to the gangplank to board the ship along with his wife and servants disappearing from view.

"Wait," Joran called after Jorah, regretting everything bad that he had ever said about the man and his manhood, "You cannot leave, we need you here, who will govern Bear Island?"

Then, before he knew it, Joran saw Longclaw, scabbard and all, fly towards him from the ship deck.

"Deliver that to your mother for me will you," Jorah said, leaning over the guard rail of the ship as the crew pulled in the gangplank, "she'll know what to do with it when the time comes!"

Holding Longclaw as though it were Lyanna when she had been born, Joran eyes never left the ship as it began to move on from West Port.

"Where will you go?" He called after his cousin.

"Essos," Jorah called back, "perhaps my fortunes will fare better there rather than here!"

And with that, Joran watched as the ship that bore his cousin, now a wanted man by the North and Crown, left for parts unknown to the young Northman.

…

 _Present_

Remembering how he had walked Kisha back to Mormont Keep, Longclaw in his possession, and told the family what had happened and Lord Eddard Stark's decree fore Jorah, Joran felt a bitter taste come to his mouth at the truth that he had felt every day since Jorah's departure.

That he had left his family, abandoned them, with his debts. Debts that Joran had to pay personally as his mother acted as the Regent of the Island until he could come of age to rule. And over the years, he learned what that would mean in the hardest way possible, on his own.

His first year as the title that he personally called, The Protector of Bear Island, Joran had had his first taste of battle, finding his first fondness for an axe rather than a sword, as well as a couple blades that were heavier than Longclaw if not stronger. So, leaving Longclaw home every time there was a battle to be fought, and taking his Greatsword, longsword, and axe with him instead, the young man soon became a force to be reckoned with every time raiders would come. Every time they did, Joran made them pay, and back then, when he had less men than he could spare in defending his family's lands, he did so alone.

By his second year in his self-appointed office, Joran at eighteen had made a terrifying name for himself in The North beyond Bear Island. Some of the Northern Lords that came to call upon Maege Mormont, did so on the occasion to behold him, the one that they had dubbed Jeor Mormont reborn again. And with time, Joran had become a peace keeper with blood and steel as his badge of office.

His fame going beyond his home, Joran's third year was full of accepting those men and women of The North who came to join him, seeking fame and glory as he had done as the protector of an island beset every season from all sides.

By the end of that year, The Oath Bound had been formed, and Joran, with the nickname The Bear would lead them battle after battle for another two years, bringing fame, honor and glory to Bear Island.

But, when he wasn't fighting Ironborn and Wildlings, Joran found that home life was a man's way of finding peace after seeing countless times of blood and death. As his sisters grew, he did as best he could to spend as much time as he could with each of them. Whether it was sparring with Dacey and Alysane to teach them the true strength of a bear, teaching Lyra how to throw knives and shoot bows and arrows as was her want to learn, and giggling, tickling, and rolling around with his youngest sisters Jorelle and Lyanna until they became too old to do so.

To Joran, time with his family meant everything.

With time though, they became greater than what they had been _with_ Jorah as the heir of Bear Island, and all of those who lived upon the Island itself prospered with Maege to lead them and Joran to protect them.

"Milord," Garratt spoke up, brining Joran back to the present, and the road before him which soon appeared to be, flowing with bodies, and not the ones belonging to the Oath Bound.

"What in the Seven Hells is going on?" Joran said out loud as he watched men and women from all different directions move down the many roads in the direction of Mormont Keep.

…


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3: News and Decisions

 **Hello and welcome back everybody, thanks for the follows and the favorites, they are really appreciated and motivating. Not to mention the reviews, I love the opinion given to me by A-Aron002, leaving nothing that he thought out and the honesty, thanks again. I also want to let everyone who had the same question as TheeDarkkReddLegionn know, that there will be Jorah Mormont chapters, and instead of the first few coming later as planned, they will be making an appearance once I self-debate how to go about them. Now, here is the next chapter in the story of Joran The Bear. I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, all original works belong to George RR Martin.**

Dacey

Standing beside her mother Maege with her back to the door to Mormont Keep, adorning her chainmail and bear skin fur upon her shoulders, Dacey, dressed in a long sleeve chainmail hauberk that fell down to just above her knees, covered over by a long green shirt that presented the Mormont family crest of the standing black bear, a mace hanging from her belt, watched and listened as her mother, speaking with Maester Samn and her Steward Braddock on how they were to govern in her stead once she left for Winterfell.

The two were to begin organizing large parties to hunt and fish across the Island upon her departure and while she was to be away. They were to also begin the purchasing of any kind of edible produce from trading vessels that make their way to Bear Island in tact with their cargo, as well as distribute a sum of it to the villages upon the Island for the smallfolk that would be remaining behind. And finally, there was to be a gathering of wood, as well as the purchasing of it from the traders at the ports, for future fires that would be needed for the fast approaching winter.

As her mother went into well thought out detail with her advisors, Dacey figured that her mother had planned this out earlier in the year when her _bones had begun aching_ , an old saying that every Mormont before had said when they felt winter over soon to come. But, it was expected of Maege to preplan stores for the winter, weather it was food or something that could burn, considering how she was the acting Lord until Joran came of age.

And the time would come when Joran had to take up the mantle, for when Maege and Dacey left with their banners to the mainland to Winterfell, The Bear would end up becoming the new Lord while they were gone.

Dacey knew that it would be unfair to Joran when they explained their plan of keeping him on Bear Island. But, regardless of whether it was fair or not, it had to be that way for her younger brother's safety. For if Joran were to accompany them, then he could be in danger of his life, and both Dacey and Maege couldn't risk him losing his life where they were going.

Granted, it would hurt the reputation of The Bear substantially, it was necessary.

A loud crash came from behind her, jarring Dacey out of her thoughts.

Turning around to the source of the noise, the Mormonts, Maester and Steward beheld Joran The Bear, long axe in hand, marching through the doorway of the Keep, trailed by his Oath Bound second in command Garratt.

The servants and warriors bustling through the Keep's great hall, stopped their work and all acknowledged Joran's presence with bows and greetings as he made his way to where his Dacey and Maege stood at a pace that commanded authority.

Feeling his younger brother's icy blue eyes as though they pierced into her as he made his way towards them, Dacey felt a twitch of fear at Joran's approach. Ever since he had begun defending Bear Island from the Ironborn and Wildlings, who had been raiding their lands since the Mormonts had been given it by the Starks in the time when the Winter Kings ruled The North, she could tell a change in her brother's demeanor. To Dacey, he had become as cold as The North itself, all mirth and laughter that she had known to be honey to her and her sisters in years past, had gone from his belly to be replaced by grim silence in the face of death that was constantly coming to their shores, and his eyes, that sparkled with life whenever she had felt them upon her and her other siblings, were now as sharp as their valyrian heirloom, the sword Longclaw.

"Joran," Maege spoke up in a hardy voice of cheer at the sight of her heir, bringing Dacey back to reality and away from the past that she knew would never return for her brother, "I trust that the raiders have been dealt with?"

"Every last one of them," Joran said as he came to stand before his mother and older sister, hugging his mother and placing a kiss on one cheek before turning to Dacey and giving her a hug in similar fashion before pulling away, "they didn't stand a chance."

Her mother nodding in approval of the news, Dacey wondered if Joran had felt anything when dealing out his task of defeating the invaders. She also wondered, if the hugs and kisses that he had bestowed upon them meant anything to him.

"As always," Maege said happily, "you bring honor and strength to our house Joran, and it makes me proud to see you in front of me after every battle you fight to defend your home."

 _And as always,_ Dacey thought, _you return to us grimmer than the last battle fought to defend your home._

Watching as Joran could only nod at the words of his mother and the silence of his sister, Dacey's thoughts were confirmed.

"Mother," Joran began in question, "why is there an army encamped around Mormont Keep? Are we expecting another attack?"

Shaking her head, Maege answered her son, "we have received word from Winterfell."

Dacey, turning from her brother back to the table, scooped up the dread letter that had begun all this preparation and presented it to Joran.

When he took it, Dacey observed that he read the letter more than once, just as her mother had when it was first received by them, before returning his gaze to his mother and sister.

"This is an outrage," Joran said blatantly, "Lord Eddard Stark couldn't be capable of such accusations, by The Gods, I highly doubt he would even stoop as low as those southern snakes and even attempt such an act as this."

"That may be," Maege said, obviously in agreement with Joran, "but they have charged him thus, and now that the old wolf is in a nest of vipers, the bears must answer to the pup to save its father."

Nodding and moving towards the table to stand between his sister and mother while looking over The North, Joran asked, "how many men do we have assembled here already?"

"Two thousand at the moment," Dacey answered before her mother could, "more men are still coming in though and we expect to have an assembled three thousand before we move to the mainland and on to Winterfell."

"That is quite a number," Joran said, nodding at his sister, "almost sounds like the entirety of the Island's men."

"Well, with our reputation of having women warriors," Dacey continued, "it is only fitting we send the men off to take care of business, while the women guard our home while we are away."

Hearing what sounded like a chuckle come from Joran, the elder Mormont sibling listened as her brother said, "that is true, but I don't believe that the last thousand is necessary to go to the mainland. My Oath Bound and I shall be efficient enough to fill in the ranks of two thousand warriors when we head off to war."

"You're not going," Maege said flatly to Joran.

Turning on their mother, Joran asked with a surprised look, "what?"

"The summons was not for you," Maege answered, "it was for me. While I am gone, you shall rule Bear Island in my stead until my return."

Turning on Maege, Joran The Bear, his blue eyes bearing down on her, said, "I will not stay at home. Not while you fight for the honor of The North. I am not a boy anymore to be left behind, when there is glory and honor to be won for our house. And furthermore, you will not go alone."

"She won't be alone," Dacey broke in, "I will be accompanying her to Winterfell."

Looking over his shoulder at Dacey briefly, Joran returned his gaze back to his mother and asked her, "have I not fulfilled my duties as your heir, mother?"

Answering simply, Maege said, "yes, you have."

"Have I not defended our Island by the strength of my arm and the wit of my mind, to the best of my ability for you?"

"You have."

"And have I not brought further renown to House Mormont, beating back Wildlings and Ironborn time and time again, without a call for aid from the mainland? Have we not prospered from it, our stores filled to bursting by what we have been able to keep due to _my_ endeavors?"

"You have and we have, but that is beside the point," Maege said, unflinching in the face of her second born like the She Bear she was, "you are my heir and I cannot risk losing you to whatever may come of this little venture south."

"Do you think me weak," Joran asked flatly to Maege, to Dacey's surprise.

"No Joran," Maege said earnestly.

"Do not deny it," Joran said, "you think that if I go south, like the Starks, I will never come back."

The words that Joran spoke, brought a hush to the great hall of Mormont Keep, and all eyes turned to the argument of mother and son, The Bears of Bear Island.

"Mother," Joran said, his tone softening substantially, "we are not Starks. Our sigil, The Bear, is not that of a Wolf. Whose strength does not rely upon that of a pack, but in its own body, its own strength alone deciding when it will die. And our words, 'Here We Stand,' the ultimate defying reminder to all those on the Mainland who believe us weak if we stand alone, those of the Iron Islands who still believe us easy to reave, and to ignorant Wildlings who believe that they are stronger just because they live somewhere colder. These things, what you taught us growing up, make us who the Mormonts are today, they define us. And as _I_ stand before you now, I will not back down from what I think."

Touched by the words of her brother, Dacey, seeing that her mother was of the same mind, asked, "what do you think, my son?"

"That my time has come," Joran spoke, his words as solid as the land he was born upon, "give me the command of our forces to take to Robb Stark, let me bring what war the southerners wish to give to us in turn, and let me show them, that we are not a weak people to pick a fight with and make them regret that they ever thought so."

After his words had been spoken, a dead silence came to the Keep as Dacey watched her mother, mull it over in her mind.

Until finally she spoke, "are you prepared to take your birthright my son?"

Knowing full well what her words meant, Dacey looked to Joran, who seeming much taller in that moment, answered his mother, "I am mother."

Turning to Maester Samn, Maege commanded him, "bring out Longclaw."

Hurrying to the task, Samn disappeared from the great hall into one of the side doors leading further into the keep.

When he returned, holding the sheathed ancient valyrian bastard sword, the heirloom of House Mormont, passed down from father to son for generations, Samn presented the weapon carefully to Maege, who taking it, turned back to her son, presenting the sword to him, making this the first generation where a mother would pass it down to a son.

"I, Maege Mormont, present Longclaw to you, Joran Mormont, my son and heir of Bear Island," Maege said almost ceremonially, "with this sword comes a solemn promise, broken only once, to rule our people well in the coming years after I am gone, and to uphold the honor of the title of Lord Mormont of Bear Island, and to never again stain it with dishonor.

"Do you accept it."

As their words had been spoken by him before, Dacey watched as Joran, standing strongly before his mother like the bear sigil of their house, lifted his hands and took Longclaw from Maege's hands saying with a nod, "I accept the responsibility that you have seen fit to grant me, mother."

"Then, by my power as the acting Lord of Bear Island, I bestow the rank and title unto you my son, and name you Joran, Lord of Bear Island." Maege said, Dacey seeing a tear fall from her mother's eyes at the sight of her son holding Longclaw.

"And I accept the rank willingly," Joran said, setting aside Longclaw upon the table and embracing his weeping mother.

And for the time being, there was no talk of planning, only a soft tender moment for a family.

…

Joran

The next day, his two thousand and three hundred soldiers rested and ready to sail, Joran The Bear and Lord of Bear Island, standing before the eastern docks of Bear Island, Longclaw strapped to his back of plate mail and his long axe in hand observed all of the troops he was to bring with him to Winterfell, load the ships at the village of East Port.

That morning, Joran had explained the state of affairs simply. He would lead their forces to the mainland and with his new title, present them to Robb Stark for the mission of saving Lord Eddard Stark at Winterfell, where they would discuss duties of each of the northern lords once the combined army of the north was assembled. While he was away, Joran had named his mother the acting Regent until he returned.

After everything had been said and done, Joran had said his farewells before he left Mormont Hall. Embracing his sisters each tenderly and promising his return to them unharmed, he had gifted them each with a present. To Alysane, he had given her a brand new mace that was well forged to her liking, the handle fit to her hand, and the weight, though less than normal, was still enough to pack a punch into the helm of any knight. To Lyra, he had given her a brand new set of hunting knives that would deal a blow to any man the same as if he were a bear if not more so. To Jorelle and Lyanna, he had gifted them each with an interwoven bracelet, where the heads of snarling bears met in the center, telling his two youngest sisters that while he was away, they would protect them.

He had hugged them all tightly before he left, with a last promise of returning.

"Having second thoughts already," Joran's eldest sister, dressed in her chainmail and sigil baring long shirt, Dacey asked right next to him, observing the progression before them.

Looking away from the ships and warriors, Joran turned to Dacey and said, "no, of course not, are you?"

"Never," Dacey said, giving her younger brother a small smile.

"That is good," Joran said, before his eyes turned to the necklace at his sister's throat and saying, "you never told me if you liked it you know."

Joran's gift to Dacey had been a simple thong necklace with its pendant being carved into the shape of a roaring bear's head.

Touching the snout of her pendant, Dacey said, "I do like it Joran, thank you for it."

Returning her small smile with one of his own, Joran, scratching his beard with a free hand, asked Dacey, "so, how long do you think it will take us to rescue Lord Stark?"

"If we're lucky," Dacey answered, "we should be able to get him back the moment we cross the neck into the south, the southerners wetting themselves at the mere sight of us will just give them a reason not to fight and give him back."

"And if we aren't lucky," Joran asked, his hand falling back to his side.

"Then," Dacey said, patting her mace affectionately, "we'll just have to see and compare who's better at killing southerners."

Laughing at the answer, Joran patted his sister on the shoulder and looking at her with a smile said, "I'm almost glad you're coming. Down south, I can't always trust Garratt to be there watching my back. With you coming along, I'll have twice the luck to return home."

Returning his smile, Dacey nodded and said, "I'll get you home, even if I have to carry you back over my shoulders like the she bears of old, I'll do it brother."

Then, they both shared a laugh. It had felt like ages to Joran since he could laugh with his sister like he was now, as though he had been sleeping for the longest time and now he was finally awake. He could've kept laughing too, had it not been for the approach of his lieutenant Garratt, who was now in fact an actual lieutenant for his entire force, after his sister of course.

"The ships are loaded and ready milord and milady," Garratt said, wearing his boiled leather vest over a new chainmail hauberk that Joran had gifted him for his knew office.

Giving his man a nod, Joran said, "excellent, now it is our turn I assume."

"Yes milord, the captains are awaiting you now, along with the order to set sail for Deepwood Motte," Garratt said.

"Very well, let us be board and be off then, before Robb Stark tries to get a head start on us," Joran said jokingly.

Within a few hours, Joran's ships would land on the shore north of the keep of Deepwood Motte, from there, with what provisions they had, they would make their way south east tow Winterfell through the Wolfswood, and with any luck, they would make it there within a day or two if the weather fared well.

But who knows, like the Starks always say, _Winter Is Coming_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4: A Laugh at Dinner

 **Hi everybody, I'm back. With this chapter, we get to see what Joran thinks about the other Northern Lords, having never met them before now and his reactions to meeting a few of them. This chapter was kind of short because I shot him straight to the dinner table in Winterfell, I am sorry for that if anyone was expecting something more, but I think that this one went rather well for the setting. Hope you enjoy it, keep up with the reviews, I love them and the opinions of the readers mean a lot to me. I own nothing Game of Thrones/ASoIaF, all characters and works belong to their respected owner George RR Martin.**

Joran

Seated at the high table with the other northern lords present for the war council/dinner with their acting Lord of Winterfell, Joran, his sister Dacey seated on his left and the Lord Rickard Karstark on his right. Though, not quite seated close enough to Robb Stark to engage in any conversation with him, The Bear could hear him while he explained the order of planning thoroughly. And, in Joran's opinion, the boy did it well for his age.

Each northern lord would have his assigned duty with the army, and though they would all be the respective leaders of the men they brought with them, all of them would be answerable to Robb Stark and whatever order he gives to them for battle positions or otherwise. The lad made it plain and clear to all of his lords of the mission they were about to set out upon, to aid the Riverlands, being besieged as they spoke by the Lannister forces, and to ultimately free Eddard Stark from King's Landing.

Though the objectives were straight forward to Joran, the one leading them towards such goals was questionable to say the least. Robb Stark was quite young, too young to be attempting such risks and to be marching so many men. And frankly, to Joran, he was green, and it made him feel rather uneasy to be being led around by a green lordling. But, whenever he had felt uneasy about the Stark, The Bear always reminded himself that he had lead men ever since he was Robb's age. And in a way, Joran, however little, liked the lad for the comparison.

Taking a sip of ale from his mug, Joran heard his sister beside him say, "the Greyjoy boy is glaring at you again."

Setting his mug down, not bothering to look down the table to where he would see Theon Greyjoy, the last son of Balon, Joran said flatly to his sister, "let him look, probably thinks I'm pretty."

As his sister laughed at the jape, it didn't escape Joran why the Ironborn runt was looking at him with enough disdain to fill the goblet before him overflowing.

Ever since he had made it to Winterfell with his force, Joran had received a multitude of eyes upon him, whether they were lowborn or highborn, he had felt them all. It wasn't uncommon knowledge that his reputation would be known to all the mainland northerners present at Winterfell. To them, Joran was nothing but a killer of Wildlings and Ironborn raiders who had no business coming to his Island. And to some of them, he was a hero for it, however grisly his methods were, a hero none the less. But to only one, he was a murderer.

The Greyjoy boy was that one, and instead of shrining away from the runt's gaze, Joran had welcomed it as a challenge. One that he would wait for openly if Theon had the balls.

Not all of the guests of Winterfell were thus though. In fact, the moment he had gotten into Winterfell's Keep, Joran had been swarmed by a number of Northern Lords and heirs. All of them wanting to meet him personally.

The first to get to Joran, had been Galbart Glover. Upon taking The Bear's hand, The Master of Deepwood Motte had apologized for not accommodating Joran and his sister upon their landing, having already left for Winterfell when they arrived at his estate. Joran, not holding anything against Galbart, said that there was no need to apologize, since no slight was intended.

The next to come and shake Joran's hand had been the rather large and almost enveloping one of the Lord Greatjon Umber. In the booming voice of his, The Lord of Last Hearth greeted the Lord of Bear Island. Standing a head shorter than The Greatjon, Joran couldn't help to look up at the man when he returned the greetings, thinking it remarkable that a man could be _that_ tall.

When the bigger man had released his hand, Joran talked with the Greatjon for a while, Greatjon actually letting on that it was remarkable that _Joran_ was there. Rather confused, The Bear had asked why it was remarkable, his lord had called and he had come. While Lord Umber had answered that he hadn't expected Joran _not_ to come, the talk ended up returning to his reputation, and that Lord Umber was grateful that Joran The Bear was fighting with them.

After another five minutes or so, The Greatjon, called away by a younger looking man almost as tall as he was, Joran and he parted ways.

Meeting with Rickard Karstark and the little Ser Manderly, greeting each accordingly and both rather shocked to be in his supposed famed presence, Joran had parted from them after a brief talk of where this little venture would lead them too and continued on through the Great Hall to be approached by Roose Bolton.

Roose, as pale as the moon itself in Joran's opinion, greeted The Bear with words only, stating that not to offend, he just didn't enjoy the touch of other people and that words should be sufficient. Not taking any offense, Joran had accepted his greetings kindly, though rather feeling disturbed at the sight of the man before him. For The Bear knew the history of the Bolton's well, and that, although seemingly tamed now and obedient to the Starks, he imagined that like a viper, they would strike out at the wolves the first chance given to them. Joran did not mention it though as he spoke to Roose openly about his thoughts on what would come of this trip south, stating that he believed that once why crossed The Neck, the southerners would be receiving quite a firsthand taste of Northern mettle.

While admiring Joran's passion, Roose had stated that the coming months should be an interesting development for House Stark and for The North in general.

Once the two had parted, Joran had made a mental note of keeping an eye on Roose Bolton in the future.

And when he had first caught Theon Greyjoy glaring down at him, Joran had made a similar note for the Ironborn boy.

"…the bloody Wall will melt," Joran, being brought back from his thoughts by the booming voice of the Greatjon at the other end of the table, "before an Umber marches behind a Glover."

Not surprised that the man with the biggest sword, however ugly, would want to be in the vanguard killing Lannisters, Joran had been equally surprised when Robb Stark had denied Jon Umber the right to lead the van and give it to Galbart Glover instead.

And figuring the Greatjon was unhappy about it, Joran took a moment to observe the little, _argument,_ if he could call it that, and see where it went.

"I will lead the van," Umber said, leaning forward on the table, intimidatingly as he stared at Robb Stark, "or I will take my men and march them home."

Those words were rather uncalled for in Joran's opinion and brash to say the least. Umber was a bannerman to Eddard Stark, and from what his mother Maege had told him about the Lord of Last Hearth, he was honorable. What would happen, if things went well in the south, _without_ Umber men, and Eddard Stark were to return here and come to find that the Greatjon had retreated back to Last Hearth, unwilling to help rescue his Lord, all because he wanted to lead the charge?

"And you are welcome to do so Lord Umber," Robb Stark said calmly with an edge to his voice that Joran didn't fail to notice, "and when I am done with the Lannisters, I will march back north, route you out of your keep and hang you for an oathbreaker."

"Oathbreaker is it," Greatjon Umber bellowed, rising out of his seat threateningly, with others following rather slowly in case a fight was to break out, "I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass!"

Then, much to Joran's surprise, Umber reached for the dagger at his belt, and seeing the Greyjoy boy shoot from his seat drawing his own, Joran stood up waiting for the boy to make a move on the Greatjon. For though he had no exceeding love for the Umber, The Bear would gut the Ironborn before he had the chance to use his blade on a mainlander.

Fortunately for him, the Direwolf that Joran had come to know as Greywind, jumped onto the table and tackled Jon Umber to the ground. In the ensuing screams from the Greatjon, Joran watched as the great wolf tore two of the fingers off of the left hand of the giant man, before returning to the side of Robb Stark.

Hearing the Greatjon growl as he stood back up, Joran listened also to the words that Robb Stark spoke, "my Lord father taught me it was death to bare steel against your liege lord. But doubtless, the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me."

Kicking aside a chair, Jon Umber, red with anger, retorted, "Your meat…"

Before he spoke the next words, the Greatjon looked around to all of his peers at the table, before smiling and gesturing to his hand said, "is bloody tough."

After that, it was all roaring laughter in the Great Hall, Joran, unable to contain himself, joined them all in laughing off the tension.

Looking at a smiling Robb Stark and remarking to himself with the thought, _I like this boy already._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5: What do you pray for?

 **Hello and welcome back everybody, Norsebjorn here with the next chapter to the tale of Joran The Bear of Bear Island. But, plot twist, this chapter will not be having our grim warrior in it physically, only in mention. This chapter, I wanted to get Jorah Mormont a moment in the light after the long time gap that has come between him and Joran, and, through a question that I kind of took as a suggestion from a reviewer who was curious about the disgraced Mormont, I decided to present Jorah's first chapter to the story. Hope you all enjoy. NOTE: I own none of the works of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, all said works and characters, places and things within them belong to George RR Martin respectively.**

Jorah

Making his way through Vaes Dothrak to where Khal Drogo's great tent would be, Jorah Mormont, clothed in a plain white silk shirt, brown cloth rapped around his hands for makeshift gloves, and black pants that had turned brown during his time with the Dothraki horde over the grass and sand lands of Essos, hurried to his Khaleesi's summons.

Before he had been called by Daenerys to her and Drogo's tent, Jorah had been conversing with the young blood rider Rakharo, trying to teach him some of the Common Tongue of Westeros, so as to better serve his Khaleesi in the future should the need arise. During his time with the Khalasar, Mormont had grown rather fond of the company of the blood rider, feeling as though he had indirectly taken the lad under his wing, though the boy wouldn't admit it to any of his fellow Dothraki. And, also, Jorah's time with Rakharo had, at times, brought back distant memories of his cousin back home on Bear Island and similar time spent with him, before he had left.

Though, he himself wouldn't admit it, Jorah, after he had come into the service of the last Targaryens, had begun to think more and more of home. Not to mention his family. Wondering if after he had helped Viserys take back the Iron Throne, Jorah could go back home, his crimes forgiven when new leadership was established throughout The Seven Kingdoms.

But at times when he would have such thoughts, Jorah wondered if, after helping the Targaryens, his family would even want him home. He knew that once they had made it to Westeros with the eighty thousand Dothraki Screamers, his name would be on every tongue that was opposed to Targaryen rule. Jorah's family, unfortunately among those that would be on the opposing side.

The disgraced knight could only wonder and hope if the time were ever to come.

For Jorah, his family had meant more to him than his life. He loved his aunt Maege, she having helped advise him after his father Jeor had taken The Black. Jorah loved his cousins equally, Dacey, Alysane, Lyra, Jorelle, and Lyanna were good girls, and had been kind to him when his own Lady Wife had belligerently degraded him daily during his time as her husband. And Joran, oh how he missed the young man that he had known and helped raise during his time on Bear Island, though he had laughed at him countless times after he had married Lynesse Hightower, Jorah knew that it was all for fun on his younger cousin's side, and at times, he couldn't blame him for the laugh, considering that he had married into the joke himself willingly.

So, before Jorah's time working with the Targaryens, Jorah had taken on the job of being one of Varys's, _little birds_ , so that he could get a straight ticket home and a full pardon from The Crown for his services. Granted it was a longshot, trusting the Eunuch who was a master at manipulating people was dangerous, even for him. But, Jorah needed an easy way home, and to spy on those whose own mission to take back the Iron Throne was suicide in the first place was the easiest way to do so.

He knew that the Dothraki, with their fear of salt water, would never plan on crossing the Narrow Sea.

At least, not with a little encouragement from Viserys, or even Daenerys if it came to it.

But, during his time with them, having seen what kind of a man Viserys was, Jorah had immediately switched his services over to Daenerys, after seeing what her brother was capable of when it came to hurting her. The Mormont hated men who abused women, and after the incident in the tall grasses of the Dothraki Plains, he knew he had made the better choice of changing his allegiance to the younger Targaryen. However much ire he had earned from Viserys, Jorah hadn't cared, for there was no honor in following a man who abused his own family.

Leaving his thoughts behind when he came upon the large tent of Daenerys and Drogo, Jorah, greeting the guards each in turn in the Dothraki language, entered the tent to find the young and beautiful Khaleesi, dressed in her Dothraki clothing, pacing next to the fire that burned in her tent as her servants awaited her next word, wide eyed and seeming almost excited.

"Ser Jorah," Daenerys said upon hearing him enter, then ordering her hand maids to leave the tent so that she may speak to the knight in private.

"You summoned me Khaleesi," Jorah asked his princess with a firm nod.

Seeing that Daenerys was shaking, masking her adrenaline quite well with her anxious face, the knight listened as she answered his question with the plain statement, "I hit him."

 _Gods,_ Jorah thought, _does she mean the Khal, perhaps one of his blood riders, if so, we are all dead._

Reigning in his thoughts, Jorah asked his princess, "who did you hit, your grace?"

"Viserys," Daenerys answered, with Jorah feeling awash with relief at her words, "I struck The Dragon."

Chuckling a little to himself, Jorah said plainly that, "your brother Rhaegar was the Last Dragon, Viserys is less than the shadow of a snake."

"He is still the True King," Daenerys said, doubtful of Jorah's assuring words.

"Truth now," Jorah said, attempting a different approach in calming the Khaleesi, "do you want to see your brother sitting on the Iron Throne?"

It took a moment for Daenerys to speak the answer, but when she did, she answered the way that the knight knew she would, "no. But the Common People are waiting for him. Illyrio said that they are, sowing dragon banners and praying for his return."

Allowing another chuckle to leave his mouth, Jorah countered his princess's thoughts by stating, "the Common People pray for rain, health and a summer that never ends. They don't care what games the High lords play."

"What do you pray for Ser Jorah," Daenerys asked, catching him off guard.

Almost stunned by the question, Jorah thought a moment before answering. Weighing the risks of answering this girl truthfully or falsely, wondering if there would be repercussions if he answered. But, finding that there wouldn't be any harm if he answered the kind Daenerys's question honestly, Jorah gave his answer.

"Home and my family."

With a small smile, Daenerys, in agreement with him said, "I pray for home too."

Then, looking away from him, she stared off to somewhere distant and continued, "my brother will take back The Seven Kingdoms. He couldn't lead an army, even if my husband gave him one. He'll never take us home."

At her last words, Daenerys's eyes returned to Jorah, who could only stare back at her upon hearing the words that sounded so hopeless when they came from the girl's lips.

 _She is wise to have figured this much out,_ Jorah thought sadly, _but so young to sound so devoid of hope._

"Could you tell me about your home and your family Ser Jorah," Daenerys asked, bringing the knight from his thoughts and back into the large tent of the Khal, "to take my mind away from, Viserys and…home?"

Giving her a small smile, Jorah answered, "it would be my pleasure Khaleesi."

Taking a seat next to the fire, with the young woman following his example, Jorah rubbed his hands upon his knees and asked out loud to himself, "now where to begin?"

He wouldn't talk about his father, that would only bring back old wounds about his betrayal that had been freshly opened when he had told Rakharo about him.

So, Jorah started with Bear Island instead of family, "Where I come from, Bear Island is a rather small and isolated land in the Bay of Ice in the north west portion of the Kingdom of Westeros. It is berated constantly in all directions by chilling winds from the Bay. And, whether it's cold or not, at one point or another, it is attacked. The only ones who even bother attacking it though, are simple Wildlings from beyond The Wall trying to prove their worth to their people, and Ironborn reavers from the Iron Islands, whose lords once had a claim on Bear Island in the legends told to me when I was growing up.

"Though it is cold there, there is a beauty to the environment," Jorah continued, with Daenerys almost bending over closer to him, as though she wanted to catch every word of the story. "The land is full of dense wood that stretches over the entire Island. And though there is little useful minerals in the land, there is great wealth in its lumber and the distribution of it, whether for the domestic communities all over the Island or even on the mainland.

"And the people there, oh," Jorah said proudly, remembering what it was like to walk amongst what he considered to be the hardiest folk in The North. "The moment there is word of a raiding party offshore, if a messenger hasn't been sent to warn the Lord of Bear Island of the impeding danger, the men and women of that village will take up arms and fight tooth and nail to drive the invaders from our shores.

"Gods," Jorah thought back to when he was the Lord of Bear Island, when he wasn't fighting against the Greyjoy rebellion, he had been defeating numbers of Wildlings and Ironborn raiders on his Island along with his bannermen, "those were some fights. When I become the Lord of Bear Island again, the first thing I shall do is arrange lookouts for any threat coming to the shore and first chance there is, I'll make them regret ever attempting an attack with me back."

"Who is the current Lord of Bear Island," Daenerys asked, as curious as a child listening to a fire side story, which was ironic.

"Now," Jorah said, remembering the most recent message that had been sent by The Spider, informing him of the current situation with The North and his cousin. Feeling himself calm down before answering somberly, the knight said, "well, it had been my Lady aunt Maege Mormont, The She Bear, as she is nicknamed. But now, it is my cousin who is the acting Lord, Joran."

"Tell me about him," Daenerys asked, her tone indicating that she had felt the change in Jorah Mormonts words.

Rubbing a hand through his hair scruff, Jorah continued, "when I left, he was six and ten, and the only person to see me leave. He was a good lad back then, well natured, intelligent, strong, everything one would want in a little brother, which he was to me, before I betrayed him.

"Now though, I fear that, he has grown into a man. I have heard whispers about him here and there here in Essos. He is a hard man, grim and intimidating to his peers, and wrathful to the enemies of the Island. I have heard that he invented a new system to the Island's defense, warning beacons all along the shore, with all of them leading straight back to Mormont Keep, notifying him the moment there is a raiding vessel on the horizon. Also, I've heard that he is a terrifying opponent, merciless to a point towards the Wildlings and Ironborn."

Looking back at Daenerys, whose eyes began to show a kind of fear that Jorah had only seen in her before when she had first married Drogo.

Bringing on the lighter side of his cousin, Jorah continued, "but, not all of him is so grim and bad. As a lad, he was fun to be around, though his jokes and quips were rather vile at times, they were laughable. He has a strong bond with our family that I hadn't seen in another man since my father Jeor was with the household. And, he is an honorable warrior which I hope to fight alongside with someday, a hero of the people, with a reputation that would make any Lord of Westeros demand respect. When I left, he became the hope of the Island for a better future, and I couldn't be more proud of him for all that he has achieved with me away."

Feeling Daenerys's hand grip his own, Jorah looked straight into her eyes as she said, "he sounds like a good man, like you."

Shaking his head, Jorah huffed with a sigh saying, "sadly, I am not a good man Khaleesi. If I were such a man as my cousin is today, I would not be here and Joran would not have had to suffer my failures upon his shoulders and the task of rebuilding the honor of our House for all these years."

Shaking her head in turn, Daenerys, with her hidden wisdom that amazed Jorah sometimes, said kindly, "whatever hardships that he has been through that you blame yourself for, sound to have made him stronger as a man. Had you not did what you did with those men…Joran would be a different man all together for it. For bad or worse, you cannot heap your guilt upon your shoulders Ser Jorah, for it will only weigh you down and under its weight, you will only be crushed. The past, is the past, and your family has been made all the stronger because of it."

Smiling at the princess's words, Jorah remarked, "and here you sent for me to give you comfort for family, and now you're here giving me the same."

Returning his smile, Daenerys, retracting her hand back to her lap, then demanded, "now, tell me about the rest of your family."

Holding his smile, Jorah began again, only speaking about his female cousins on Bear Island.

The talk lasted for the better part of an hour before the Khal, drunk and naked, entered the tent and, Jorah, taking his leave, bid his Khaleesi a good evening before the two became intertwined together in the tent.

While Jorah, walked out into the night, alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6: Oaths and Battle Plans

 **Hey everybody, I'm back. Sorry to everyone who read my last chapter and saw a bit of a mix up with the names. I made a kind of mental error when typing out Joran instead of Jorah when I was telling it from the latter's point of view, my B. Hey, I fixed it and I hope to make it up to you with this next chapter. Because right now, I am going to be hitting not one, but two pivoting points of the story. We are at the Twins where Robb makes his oath to marry one of the Frey girls, and also, we get to see what Joran thinks about Robb letting the spy that was counting the men in his army, leave with his life and, not to mention some friction between him and Theon. Please enjoy. Note: I own nothing Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, all places, people and things pertaining to these works belong to George RR Martin respectively.**

Joran

Sitting in a council of war with his fellow northern lords, Joran listened as The Greatjon told them all of a way to deal with the Lannister armies marshaled against them.

Earlier in the week, word had reached them from their scouts of not one, but two Lannister hosts.

One of them, fifteen thousand strong, was being led by the Young Lion, Jaimie Lannister, who now was now sitting and getting fat in victory over what Joran had heard to be The Battle near Riverrun. Where the Young Lion had taken Edmure Tully, among many others, hostage. But, as the capitol of the Riverlands stood now, Tytos Blackwood was managing the defense there, forcing Jaimie to lay siege to the castle itself.

The other army, twenty thousand strong, whose leader was none other than Tywin Lannister, having all but conquered the Riverlands was moving northeast as they spoke towards the ruby ford, taking keep after keep on his way from Raventree Hill to Harrenhal and even to Darry.

And while the Lions took out the Riverlords in the field, so too did their mad dog Gregor Clegane harass and burn the lands of the Pipers and Brackens, sowing the fertile lands with rivers of blood.

Feeling his mind was distant from the council, Joran, further away as Jon Umber spoke, had his mind set about how he would help deal with the Lannisters his way. With his Oath Bound alone, he could be able to harass the armies of Jaimie if not Tywin. But then, The Bear thought of another means to an end that could benefit the cause, and that included setting it upon himself to hunting The Mountain down and killing him where he would to end the slaughter of innocents.

All Joran needed was the right time to approach Robb with the idea, but, with what these days brought, he highly doubted that his lord would allow him leave to go hunting.

Returning to the council, Joran's eyes wandered over to where his Lord Robb Stark sat next to his Lady mother, Catelyn Stark, who had arrived at their camp only days prior.

For an aged woman, Joran sensed that there was a faded beauty about the former Tully.

And for a mother, Joran also felt quite aware of the bond that the two Starks felt for each other the day that Catelyn had found their encampment, having been ushered out of the command tent by the Greatjon rather rudely so she and her son could have some tender moments alone that the other lords didn't need to see.

In a way, upon seeing Catelyn sit with Robb, made Joran feel rather homesick and missing his own mother Maege terribly.

"My Lord," came the voice from one of two guards who barged into the tent with a smaller man in between them, interrupting the Greatjon in the process of the plans, "we caught this Lannister scout!"

With a haste that Joran never thought the lazy Ironborn could have in him, Theon folded the map over the arranged figures dominating their surface, detailing movements and where they could point their attacks.

Noticing what the lad had done, the Greatjon commented to Theon, "don't worry lad, he won't be leaving this tent with his head."

That was something Joran could agree with happily.

But then, Robb Stark rose from his seat next to his mother, and asked the guards, "where did you find him?"

The guard who had spoken before, answered, "in the brush above the encampment, he looked to be counting."

Robb then moved around the table and lords, and stepping towards the scout, held firmly by the guards, he asked the lad, "how high did you get?"

Looking up from the ground, the boy answered nervously, "twenty thousand, maybe more."

 _It's a shame he knows how to count,_ Joran thought, reaching for his long axe which was casually leaning against the table.

As if reading his mind, Ser Rodrick Cassel, with his braded whiskers, spoke to Robb, "you don't have to do this yourself, your father would understand that-."

"My father understands," Robb interrupted the northern knight, "mercy, when there is room for it… And he understands honor and courage."

Eyeballing his lord as he stared dead onto the captured spy, Joran watched and listened with horror as Robb Stark commanded the guards, "let him go."

Not alone in his thoughts, Joran heard an outburst from the Lady Catelyn behind him, "Robb!"

In response to his name, the young Stark could only look back at his mother, in an almost threatening way that silenced her.

Then, returning his gaze back to the boy, Robb Stark approached him, and Joran listened as he ordered the spy, "you tell Lord Tywin, Winter is Coming for him. Twenty thousand northerners marching south to find out if he really does shit gold."

As Robb retracted from him, the boy nodded, shaken by the order as he answered, "yes my Lord."

And with that, the guards took the prisoner away, only to set him free.

The Greatjon, almost following the guards out to deliver the deed that was intended for the spy, rounded on Robb and asking him angrily, "are you daft, boy!?"

"Call me boy again," Robb said, cold and threateningly to Lord Umber, "go on!"

After a momentary pause, Jon Umber huffed and with a shake of his head, turned on his heel, leaving the command tent, along with the majority of the other lords of Robb's war council.

The only one to remain of their number was Joran.

"Do you truly think that was wise my lord?" Joran couldn't help to ask, returning his long axe to its resting place against the table, "allowing the spy to go free?"

"He'll serve his purpose," Robb said, turning to look at Joran, "the moment Tywin Lannister hears those words, all he'll be expecting is a confident, _green,_ boy behind them. And giving him the delusion that I am overconfident will be his own downfall in the future."

Nodding, Joran saw some sense in it, "not a bad way to go about it I suppose. The words will definitely be affective when the Old Lion hears them."

"He'll be pissing his pants the moment he does," Theon said, the confident arrogance seeming to infect the tent.

"I highly doubt that," Joran said, briefly looking over his shoulder at the Greyjoy before returning to who he was really talking to, his lord, "but, only time will tell before we find out if your message has the desired effect."

"Aye," Robb said with a nod, "I think I shall take my leave then, we'll convey the council again in the morning, fresh and early."

Nodding back to his lord, giving him a small smile through his beard, Joran said, "as you wish my lord."

And with that, Robb, Catelyn, and Rodrick left the tent.

Before he could grab his axe to follow suit, Joran was approached by a leaving Theon, who stopped right next to him to ask, "would you mind conveying a message to your sister for me, my lord?"

Looking at the Ironborn, who was treading rather suddenly on dangerous ground without need or provocation to do so, Joran eyed Theon as he answered with his own question, "why would I ever do that, Greyjoy?"

"Well, considering how she has been…avoiding my advances towards her, I figured that the best way to slip under her chainmail would be through her brother, if you don't mind of course," Theon said smartly.

Of all the things that Joran couldn't tolerate in the world, the first few being Wildlings and Ironborn in general, the next being cravens, and the last and most important being men who thought that they could even think, talk, or go near his sisters in anyway.

And standing before him, was a small mixture of them all, and that, was intolerable.

So, planning to answer the Greyjoy's question the clearest way possible, Joran, smiling briefly to give the appearance of calm acceptance, grabbed the sides of Theon's head and with a quick movement on his part, slammed his forehead into the younger man's nose.

Hearing the break, Joran allowed the Ironborn boy to fall to the earth, wailing on his way down through his hands that tried to stem the blood flow from his now, broken nose.

"You are," Joran began before wiping his forehead off, freeing it from any blood that may have gotten on him, "the most arrogant, little prick, I have ever laid my eyes on master Greyjoy. So, I'll put it simply to you about how I feel about you before I leave. I hate Ironborn, I hate Ironborn who believe they are allowed to take from people what they haven't earned, and lastly, oh and I hope you remember this one, I hate Ironborn who think they can attempt to take any women from my Island as Salt Wives, and that includes my sisters."

Bending down and grabbing a handful of the younger man's hair, Joran, looking straight into the eyes of probably the only person he hated in the entire encampment, said "presume to go near my sister in the future, and I'll personally give you another reminder, perhaps one more permanent, let's say the separating of your cock, hm? That would be a fair trade for how insulted I feel, hearing you wanting to 'advance,' on my sister the way I know you are rumored to do with other women."

Releasing the boy, Joran allowed him to return to sniveling as he picked up his axe and made his way out of the tent.

Before he left though, he called back to Theon, "oh and be sure to go see a physician about that nose. We'll be needing you to fill in the ranks of the cravens when the real fighting begins."

…

The next few days, Joran hadn't seen the Greyjoy boy outside of the war councils.

And he was happier for it.

Every time Joran laid his eyes on the face of the Ironborn, now sullen when he used to be so cheerful at the meetings, he couldn't help but to smile at what he had done to Theon's face. The Greyjoy's nose, crooked from the impact of Joran's head with it, was so out of place The Bear had heard that even when the physicians had reset it in place, the bone would not straighten out normally, making the deformity permanent. Thinking it an improvement, Joran let the nose serve as a lesson and reminder to Theon, to never, ever, fuck with him.

But, as much as loved to see the now sullen Greyjoy mope about council meetings, as the camp moved onward towards their much desired destination, Joran beheld the one thing that separated the northern army, from the main southron army.

The Twins.

Upon a hill next to Robb Stark, Ser Rodrick, Lady Catelyn and The Greatjon, Joran, leaning upon his axe and staring at the massive structure that, serving as a bridge, stretched across the Green Fork where unfortunately for the northmen, was the easiest means to getting to the far bank.

If dealing with the Freys of the Crossing was presumed easier than wading through water at the ruby ford to attempt to do battle with Tywin Lannister.

Sadly, it was and now, looking at the towers of the Freys, Joran watched as Theon shot what seemed like the tenth raven that morning out of the sky.

Having been watching the towers for quite some time, Robb had ordered his man Theon to shoot any ravens seen flying out of them down, fearing that Walder Frey meant to send word to Tywin Lannister about the whereabouts of the northern army.

When Theon approached with the confiscated parchment, presenting it to Robb, Joran listened to the exhausted sigh of his liege, "it's a birthday message to his grandniece Walda."

"Or so Walder Frey would have you think," Joran heard Theon suggest, never under the impression that the Ironborn boy could be cautious.

"Keep shooting them down," Catelyn Stark said, "we can't risk Lord Walder sending word of your movements to the Lannisters."

Keeping his eyes on the Twins, Joran listened as Robb Stark argued, "he's grandfather's bannerman, we can't expect his support?"

"You expect nothing from Walder Frey," the Greatjon said grimly, "and you'll never be surprised."

Agreeing with the Greatjon with a nod, Joran, having heard of the reputation that Walder Frey had built over his ninety years of life, figured that there was truth to what the older man said.

"Look," Jon said, nodding to a pair of riders approaching them from the direction of the two towers, under banners of truce.

"My father rots in a dungeon," Robb said, his words bringing Joran away from the Twins and to him as he continued, "how long before they take his head?

"We need to cross the Trident and we need to do it now."

"Just march up to his gates," Theon said, just when Joran was starting to believe that the arrogant prat had some sense, "and tell him you're crossing. We've got five times his numbers. You can take the Twins if you have to."

"Heh," Joran scoffed at the Greyjoy, "if we did that, we'd have five times less his numbers by the time it was over boy. Not to mention the fact that we still wouldn't be across when our army turns into the former shadow of what it was. Besides, we don't have time for a siege anyway."

"He's right," the Greatjon said in agreement, "we wouldn't be able to take the Twins in time. Tywin Lannister marches north as we speak."

"The Frey's have held the crossing for six hundred years," Catelyn added to a final agreement, "and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll."

Looking back out to the riders, Robb ordered, "have my horse saddled and ready."

 _Gods,_ Joran thought, _he can't be seriously thinking of going in there alone._

As if hearing the thought, Jon Umber echoed them, "enter the Twins alone, he'll sell you to the Lannisters as he likes."

And Theon, with another stoke of sense that Joran was surprised to see, stated, "he'll throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat."

"My father would do whatever it took to secure our crossing," Robb said, his eyes never leaving the approaching riders, only a stone's throw away now, "whatever it took. If I'm going to lead this army, I can't have other men doing my bargaining for me."

"I agree," Catelyn said, before shocking them all with more words, "I'll go."

After an assortment of 'you can't do that,' and 'don't Cat,' from them all, Lady Stark continued, "I've known Walder since I was a girl, he would never harm me."

"Unless there was some profit in it," Jon said firmly.

But, there was no changing the older woman's mind, and before they knew it, Catelyn Stark, escorted by the riders, made her way to the Twins.

…

Before sundown, Catelyn returned to the northern encampment.

Entering the command tent as the Greatjon was discussing how best to go about planning if their crossing was denied, Catelyn, interrupting the talk with her presence, stepped towards the table.

Rising from their seats out of respect, Joran and the other lords each gave their nods of greetings to their Lady, as her son simply asked her, "well, what did he say?"

"Lord Walder, has granted your crossing," Catelyn said to all those present, making Joran think to himself, _I'll be damned, it actually worked._

"His men," Joran heard her continue, "are yours as well, save for the four hundred he will keep here to hold the crossing if any were to pursue you."

Nodding, Joran couldn't believe how much they were actually getting out of Walder Frey, who had been known to be rather stingy when it came to helping his allies.

"What does he want in return," Robb said, knowing full well that there was a price to pay for crossing.

"You will be taking on his son, Oliver, as your personal squire," Catelyn said, marking off a simple term to Joran as he continued to listen, "he expects a knighthood in good time."

"Fine," Robb readily agreed.

But, noting the look on Lady Stark's face, Joran believed that that wasn't all that Frey wanted.

Robb, noticing the look, asked, "And?"

"And," Catelyn went on, "Arya will marry his son Waldrew, when they both come of age."

"She won't be happy about that," Robb said flatly, and if what Joran knew about Arya Stark was true, she'd probably act like his sister would, and beat the Frey's balls bloody the moment he laid hands on her.

But, Joran and Robb noticed that wasn't all that Catelyn had to say about Walder's terms.

"And?" Robb asked, seeming flabbergasted at how much the Frey wanted from him.

"And," Catelyn continued with a calm demeanor, "when the fighting is done…you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer. He has a number he thinks will be…suitable."

"I see," Robb said coldly, Joran not blaming him for what he could be feeling at the moment, being in between a hard place and a rock with the decision. "Did you get a look at his daughters?"

His question earning a chuckle from Greyjoy, which almost set Joran's blood to boiling at the small show of disrespect in the presence of his lord.

"I did," Catelyn said, not heeding the noise that Theon made while her son did.

"And?" Robb asked.

"One was…" Catelyn began, but faltering, with Joran believing there wasn't a kind word that his Lady could think of to describe a daughter of Walder Frey.

"Do you consent," Catelyn asked instead.

"Can I refuse," Robb asked, Joran knowing full well that he couldn't.

"Not if you want to cross," Catelyn stated, speaking Joran's own opinion.

There was a silent pause in the room for a time, Joran and the rest of the bannermen looking to Robb and waiting for his answer.

And, after mulling it over for all but a moment, Robb Stark answered, "then I consent," before leaving the tent and his council.

Nodding in agreement with the decision, Joran could only think of how hard it must be to allow the fate of one's future to be decided by others, even when he was the lord of them all.

"Well, now that that's out of the way," the Greatjon said, while Joran and the other lords returned to their seats and the Lady Catelyn along with Theon and Rodrick followed out after Robb. "Time to talk of the plan."

"Aye," all the lords said in agreement.

"Now that we have the crossing," Jon said, placing his finger where the Twins was located on the map, "we can fulfill Lord Stark's plan."

Leaning in to listen as the Greatjon explained the deception that they would be playing out against the Lannister forces, Joran, although listening, had his mind elsewhere on Robb's oath, knowing full well that, in order for this war to be won by The North, he would have to keep his word until the very end.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7: The Bear and The Lion

 **Hello and welcome back everybody. Glad to see the reviews piling up, along with the constructive criticism. Thank you for them and I hope that I can make this story better for everyone with the coming chapters. Enjoy. Note: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, all people, places and things pertaining to these works belong to George RR Martin.**

Joran

In the Whispering Wood, dressed in his plate mail and wearing an open faced helmet, its top half mimicking the head of a roaring bear, Joran atop his horse Kisha, Longclaw strapped to his back and his long axe in hand, was at the head of the two thousand riders with Robb at his side that had crossed at the Twins with them three days past, waited for the decoys they had sent out earlier that morning in hopes of baiting the Young Lion to give chase and come their way.

Removing his gaze from where they had planned the return of the small force they had sent in order to spring their trap, Joran looked over the few warriors from Bear Island that he had been allowed to keep under his command. Dacey, at Robb's side as one of his personal guards, and Garratt were among them, as was all the Oath Bound, infantrymen turned into cavalry, which the Bear had joked with his fellows all the way from the Twins. When the plan had been discussed the first time Joran had heard it, especially the part where the majority of his own bannermen and women had been put under Roose Bolton's command, along with the other sixteen thousand northern foot they had brought down with them in order to draw Tywin Lannister further north, the Lord of Bear Island had spoken out against it. Other than for the fact that he was placing two thousand men and women from his home under someone else's command under the orders of Robb, Joran could have accepted it were it anyone other than Roose Bolton. The man was a snake in a man's skin, and the last thing the Bear wanted was to give the snake the majority of their forces.

But, his voice falling on deaf and loyal ears alike, Joran's argument was shut down the moment it had been brought up, with Robb assuring him that Roose could be trusted.

And all the while down from the Twins, Joran had the feeling that someday Roose would be laughing at the same assurance.

That was the past, and Joran had to keep set his mind to the fight that was to come.

After another hour or so, there were the early signs of life coming from the trees opposite to the front line of horsemen. From the brush, the sound of thundering hoofs and hollering voices could be heard easily enough. That was all that was needed to let the main force know who was coming.

Gripping his long axe tightly, Joran peered into the vegetation, catching early signs of the oncoming riders. First, it was the animals that they were scaring from their hiding places in the Wood. Then, Joran began to notice the distinct shapes of horses, closing into their position fast.

And, with a final holler to those chasing them, the decoy team erupted from the brush, Lannister cavalry hot on their heels.

Smiling when he saw the red armored men atop their horses, failing to notice the much larger force they were about to run into, Joran looked over to Robb for his orders.

When the young Stark lifted his hand, giving the indication to hold, Joran looked back out to where more and more Lannister knights were continuing to pour into the small clearing they had chosen for their trap.

Knowing that the order wouldn't be given until they had eyes on Jaimie Lannister, Joran held back the urge to spur his horse and order them all forward to battle.

When the decoy riders dispersed into different directions, each of them returning to their own lines as instructed before they had been sent out, the majority of the small enemy force that had road out to capture them was now in the Wood.

One among them, Joran spotted, with armor matching the colors of his house to polished perfection atop a white horse, the red and gold son of Tywin, Jaimie Lannister.

The moment Robb saw him, following his second in commands eyes, he let his hand fall and the trap spring.

Letting loose the roar of a wild beast, Joran spurred Kisha and with his Oath Bound hot on his heels, led the charge of their cavalry alongside Robb Stark towards the enemy force.

From where the Lannisters had been halted by the Young Lion in the clearing, Joran could see the archers they had placed in the trees loosing arrows into the ranks of the enemy knights upon hearing the Bears war cry.

Closing in on their prey, the sounds of the dying music to his ears, Joran was the first rider into the clearing, and with a mighty swing from his axe, lopped off the arm of one knight who had raised his sword arm to rally his fellows to him, his sword and body part flying through the air and disappearing into the brush.

Bringing his axe to bear, Joran continued an onslaught of killing that only his Oath Bound could match. Hacking, slashing, parrying and even thrusting with his long weapon, the Bear felt at home in the raging battle before him. For though he wasn't on his own two feet, Joran danced with death on the battlefield, and death let him lead.

Planting his axe's blade into the helmet of another Lannister knight, allowing the body to fall from his horse and slide off his weapon at the same time, Joran scanned the chaos around him, looking for any sign of the prize they had come for.

All around him, there were knights dying at the hands of northmen or surrendering at the feet of northmen to be taken as hostages.

His gaze jumping from one scene of death or capture to another, Joran ended up finding the Kingslayer, still astride his white horse, his sword bloody and his armor untouched from the fighting.

Ordering Kisha onwards towards the real challenge that he would be able to find on the field, Joran, turning his axe blade around so that the flat end of his weapons head faced towards his prey, remembered to take the Young Lion alive.

Closing in on Jaimie, Joran lifted his axe and once he was close enough, he swung and hit across the Lannister's body, knocking him from his horse and to the earth without a dent in his armor.

Leaping from his horse, knowing that his foe had been well protected against the non-lethal blow, Joran tread carefully towards the fallen knight.

Almost upon him, Joran was startled when Jaimie Lannister rose from the ground, swinging wildly in all directions in an attempt to catch an enemy unawares.

Gripping his axe with both hands, keeping the flat end towards the Young Lion under orders from Robb, Joran waited for the knight to realize that it was only him on the ground with him. Considering that the southron helms were designed for protection and not ease of sight, the Bear forgave the Lannister in his mind for making him wait. His actions though, would not be so forgiving.

Swinging his axe hard to try and knock Jaimie down again, Joran wasn't surprised that he missed. Given the distance advantage that his weapon gave him over the knight, the southerner in turn would use even further distance to keep his opponents weapon from hitting him. Figuring that the Young Lion only wanted an opening to exploit, Joran followed Jaimie's movements to and fro, waiting for his opponent to make an attempt.

With the battle nearing to a close around them, Joran, impatient with his enemy, gave the southron knight a clear chance.

Planting his long axe into the dirt, Joran began to make his way towards the Kingslayer, who took the chance willingly.

As Jaimie made feint to swing only to turn it into a thrust towards his chest, Joran easily side stepped his opponent's movement and in an instant, he had one arm wrapped around the two that the Kingslayer had used to grip his sword.

Face to face with the Young Lion, hearing the heavy breathing of Jaimie Lannister from behind his helmets visor, Joran, knowing that his foe could see his face plain as day, smiled before planting a heavy gauntleted fist into the Kingslayer's protected face.

The force of his blow denting Jaimie's helmet, Joran repeatedly hit Jaimie over and over again, thinking to himself as he did so, _Robb wants him alive, but he didn't say anything about not hurting the pretty man._

Landing a final blow onto the cranium of the Lannister, Joran allowed his foe to fall to the ground, dropping his sword on the way down.

Scooping up his fallen enemy's weapon, the Bear looked it over, remarking to himself _so this was the weapon that killed a king, it's so, thin._

Turning his gaze from the weapon, Joran looked back to the Kingslayer to find him attempting to get back to his feet.

Chuckling to himself, Joran let him.

When Jaimie drew the dirk from his belt, Joran's smile vanished and, flipping the fancy sword around in his hands to where he was holding the blade, he swung the knight's own weapon at him, landing a hit with the sword pummel.

His foe's helmet flying away from the force of the blow, Joran watched as Jaimie Lannister fell back to the earth, finally unconscious and taking in his surroundings, saw that the battle was won.

Retrieving his axe from where he put it, Joran kept watch over the sleeping Kingslayer, awaiting his liege lord to come and pick up the prize of the battle.

When Robb appeared from the scattered mass of man and horse, followed by Dacey, the son of the Greatjon the Joran had come to know as Smalljon, and the rest of his personal guard, Joran looked up to his lord and giving him a small smile, presented Jaimie Lannister's sword hilt first and said, "the Kingslayer and the battle is yours my lord."

Receiving the sword from Joran, Robb nodded solemnly to the man before him as he said, "I only hope that Lord Bolton is as lucky as we are this day, for the sake of the lives of our men."

Remembering that Lord Bolton had to deal with Tywin, Joran couldn't help but feel rather saddened, knowing full well that lives would be lost on the eastern side of the Trident.

Forcing the thoughts from his mind, Joran returned to the present, and looking around, spotted Garratt with a pair of his Oath Bound wandering the field for loot.

Calling his second in command and the ones with him, Joran indicated to Jaimie Lannister, who was mumbling incoherently in his unconscious state, and said, "take the Kingslayer and cast him in irons. I want ten of our own watching him until we can find or make him a suitable cell. He is not to be harmed, and that goes the same for any other of our captives this day."

"Understood milord," Garratt said, directing the two others with him to pick the fallen knight up.

As Jaimie was heaved up from the ground though, Joran could hear what the defeated knight was mumbling, "fight me…fight…"

When his captive was taken away, Joran turned back to Robb, who held a puzzled look upon his face, giving Joran the impression that he hadn't been the only one who had heard the Kingslayer.

Shrugging, Joran said plainly to Robb, "your orders said I wasn't to kill him, so I rung his bell a little and knocked him out while staying in accordance with your orders."

Nodding, Robb ordered the Lord Mormont, "very well then, mount up my lord, for the day is not yet done, for we still have to lift the siege at Riverrun."

Returning his lords nod, Joran walked back over to Kisha and mounting up, moved to the task of regrouping the Oath Bound.

…

After a day's worth of riding, the force of two thousand northern horse made it to where they were to meet up with the small force lead by the Blackfish a mile from the three encampments surrounding Riverrun.

Once they knew the situation with the Lannister forces, the leaders of the northern forces, now counting Brynden Tully among their number, planned out their attack.

That very night, they were to make a surprise attack on the encampments. Brynden Tully would initiate the attack by leading a force against the camp positioned north of Riverrun. Volunteering to aid in the van, Joran was given joint command of the initiating assault. Once battle was joined and chaos ensued in the Lannister ranks, Robb would lead another portion of his force against the western camp and corner the enemy between the walls of Riverrun and his horse.

With the combined strength of the houses of Piper and Vance to their two thousand, the northern force split each to its specific part of the plan.

All through the night, the Battle of the Camps raged. The Bear and the Blackfish all but ploughing through the northern encampment with the van, taking little to no casualties from the assault. The eastern encampment fared no better, all of the enemy slaughtered by Robb Stark and the forces of the Riverlords who were following him, as well as a sortie from Riverrun to surround the surviving shieldwall that had formed up before the gates of the castle. As for the third, more southern camp, like the cravens that Joran believed them to be, retreated back on the road towards the Golden Tooth.

By the end of it all, Lannister banners burned, the gates of Riverrun were opened to them, and Joran, his armor covered in the blood of all the men he had killed, was dubbed by the Riverlords and northmen alike, Blood Bear.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8: The Next Step

 **Hello my fellow Fanfiction readers and writers, here's another chapter for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy! Note: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, all people, places and things related to said works belong to George RR Martin.**

Joran

Making his way through the halls of Riverrun to the solar of Edmure Tully, Joran, dressed in a simple shirt under a vest of leather and brown pants, his long hair tied back into a ponytail and his beard now combed to the point of civility, his axe in hand and Longclaw strapped to his back, took his time getting to where he had been called to go by his Lord Robb.

Walking past the many trout banners adorning the stone walls of Riverrun, Joran wondered what this meeting was for, considering that it was only himself going to it from among the northern lords.

Turning the final corner, Joran beheld the main doors of the heir to Riverrun's quarters, the two sentries posted there under orders, Tully men by the look of them, chatting silently to each other before standing up straight at the sound of his approach.

Ignoring the lack of discipline that the two had, Joran passed them by and opening the doors to the room, he beheld Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark, Brynden Tully, and Edmure Tully all standing around a table where laid a map of Westeros, with assorted pieces on it to indicate battle lines.

"Lord Mormont," Robb said in greeting to Joran as he came closer to the little gathering.

"Is it necessary for your bannerman to be armed nephew," Ser Edmure Tully asked, gesturing towards Joran with a hand.

"I think it fitting for the Blood Bear to be armed at all times nephew," Ser Brynden Tully countered before adding, "I also think that you should show a little more gratitude to a man who helped free you from captivity, rather than questioning how he presents himself."

Nodding gratitude towards the Blackfish, Joran returned his gaze to Robb and asked plainly, "you summoned me my lord?"

"I did," Robb said, pointing to the map and waving Joran to join him at the table.

Standing next to Robb, Joran looked down at the map and beheld the lines. The pieces on the board representing the sigils of each major house on the battlefield were the markers for each position. Wolves, towers and trout on the board represented the now regrouped Stark northmen, the promised Frey soldiers, and newly joined, while very small Tully men. The rest of the pieces were all lions of House Lannister, the majority of the lions were positioned at Harrenhal to the east, whereas to the west there was one lion to represent the forces that had retreated to the Golden Tooth.

From what Joran could tell, they had an advantageous position with their forces in Riverrun. Where they were being right in between the westerlands and Tywin, was perfect, considering that the Old Lion had to feed his troops, and with the Stark forces there, the supplies would never reach the Lannisters. Not by a long shot.

"It is quite the site my lord," Joran stated proudly, turning from the map and to his liege, "but where will we be going from here?"

"Once word reaches me from Roose Bolton back at the Twins on Tywin's position, I shall be moving west, raising every Lannister keep in my path, making them pay dearly for the war Tywin brought to the Riverlands." Robb Stark seemed to sound different as he spoke the words to Joran, almost as though he wouldn't bat an eye on his threatening plan.

"Do the other northern lords know," Joran asked.

Nodding, Robb said, "Aye, they do."

"We," Catelyn spoke up before Joran could be bold enough to ask why he was the last to know of the plan, "wanted to inform you lastly, because, you aren't going to be joining Robb when he goes west."

"Aye," Robb said, "I plan on leaving you and your Oath Bound here to help defend Riverrun from Tywin Lannister and Clegane. The reputation that you have will keep the river lords bolstered with the fact that you are there with them, helping to dissuade Tywin from crossing the Trident. And, needing someone I can trust with the Kingslayer while I'm away, it falls to you to make sure that he isn't able to leave."

Looking back over to the map, Joran asked, "and what of the rest of my forces? The ones that I brought you from Bear Island. They will be going with you I assume?"

"Yes," Robb answered.

"And my sister," Joran continued, "will she be going?"

Blood Bear hadn't liked the first notion of Dacey being one of Robb Stark's personal guards, and he definitely would like it much less if she were to leave his side for the Stark.

"Aye," Robb answered, "she'll be needed to keep the Bear Islanders in check under my command, while we take the fight to the west."

Nodding, Joran could feel a slow anger building up at the thought of Dacey somewhere else, without him to watch over her. He feared for her life on the battlefield every day since the Whispering Wood. No one had a right to separate the Mormont's, not in time of war or for any other reason.

"And who is to remain behind with me, while I defend the Riverlands?"

"I shall leave the Blackfish, Edmure, and my mother here to aid in any diplomatic support you would need if the time arose for you to rally the Riverlords to your side," Robb answered.

Joran felt his gut sink lower into his stomach at the thought of a bear needing trout to help fight lions.

In a sense, it was cruelly ironic.

Feeling some hope at there being the Lady Catelyn, who was known for her sound advice in the times of hard decisions, and Ser Brynden, who had fought side by side with him at the Battle of the Camps, Joran figured that two out of three, reliable allies, would be help enough.

But, for though he had nothing against him, Joran couldn't help but feel as though he was being left to babysit Ser Edmure.

With Hoster Tully deathly ill and on what most would call his deathbed, the rule of Riverrun fell to Edmure.

Considering the bang up job that he did with handling the Lannisters before the northern forces arrival, Joran felt uneasy about the man and his ability to lead.

Heaving out a sigh, Joran looked back at Robb and said, "very well, here I will stand in order to defend the Riverlands until you return my Lord. But, while you are away, I will be fighting the Lannisters my way."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Robb said, the tension leaving the room when he patted Joran on the shoulder appreciatively, "and don't worry, I'll be sure to protect Dacey until I retu-."

He was cut off when a man, breathing ragged and sweating, burst through the doors into the solar with angry guards hot on his tail.

"My lord," the man breathed while guards took hold of him and moved to take him away, "and my lady, I bring grave news, word has reached us from King's Landing!"

"Let him go," Joran growled at the guards, who seeing who had ordered them, did so without a second thought.

"Speak," Catelyn said, rising from her seat at the table and moving to stand next to Robb and Joran, "what developments have happened."

"My lady," the man began, "I am so sorry."

When the man divulged what he knew, Joran felt that the bright day outside, had grown darker.

…

The news of Eddard Stark's execution had brought a heavy mood down upon the northerners occupying Riverrun.

All around him, Joran could see men drinking toasts to Lord Eddard, out of honor for how he ruled them before his untimely death.

The northern lords all had mixed emotions. Majority of them were angry enough to beat their own hands bloody against a wall or tree in their grief at the loss of one they knew as their honorable lord, cut down unjustly. Some, took to weeping for the Quiet Wolf, they being sad at the loss of a man that they had considered not just their lord, but their friend.

And, from what Joran had seen from the Lady Catelyn and the now permanent Lord Robb, the two each represented a side to the grief that spread through the camp.

Joran though, he was not seen beating his fists bloody against stone or wood at the loss of an honorable man, and nor was he seen crying for Lord Eddard. Instead, the Blood Bear stood alone on the ramparts of Riverrun that looked southward, the direction of King's Landing. Looking out that way, gripping the head of his axe before him as though he was in prayer, Joran glared daggers.

Though he had only known the older man by name alone, Joran knew that he was one worth fighting for.

So many times before when he was younger, Lord Eddard had commanded men be sent in the support of Bear Island when Joran was first coming into his own as the Lord.

A man who was considered the most honorable one in the north, a hero to all who had fought alongside him in Robert's Rebellion, had had his name sullied by a boy King and was executed by a butcher instead of Joffrey himself.

There was no honor in it, and Eddard Stark disserved better.

And with time, Joran hoped to give the dead man just that and justice to follow.

On the ramparts, Joran Blood Bear, piercing his hand and spilling blood upon the walls of Riverrun, spoke a vow that he would carry with him through this war until the end, "In the name of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I Joran of the House Mormont, do solemnly swear, that I will not stop fighting until I have died, or Joffrey has. By the strength of my arm, I shall make them pay for what they have done. By the edge of my axe and sword, I shall make them bleed for what they have done. And on my life, I shall bring the fury of the Old Gods down upon them for what they have done. Here I stand and swear upon my own blood, they will pay."

…

A day later, outside of the walls of Riverrun, Joran, his hand bandaged and his weapons waiting for use, along with all the other northern lords, all of whom were gathered together to a meeting upon hearing a bit of more news about King's Landing.

Joffrey Baratheon, was not a legitimate heir to the Iron Throne.

The new outrage of the day, having come to them three days after the news of Lord Eddard, had sobered up all of the northern lords to one common emotion, anger.

All of them there and then wanted the Boy King dead, and they weren't the only ones.

In the south, the brothers of the late King Robert had begun to mobilize their own armies, Stannis in Dragonstone, and Renly with the Reach, both intending to stake their own claims to the Iron Throne.

The matter of the assembly at hand was simple, who does the north support for the kingship?

"The proper course is clear: Pledge fealty to King Renly and move south to join our forces with his," Galbart Glover said before all the lords before him, all of whom included Lord Robb and his mother, the now widowed Lady Catelyn.

In Joran's mind, Renly wasn't the right king to pledge fealty to. From what Blood Bear knew of him, the man was a spoiled and arrogant prat who grew up on wealth and luxury – but, then again, all of the southern pups were spoiled, Renly just had more wealth and luxury than most. And, from what Joran had heard among the rumors about the youngest Baratheon, he was the wrong _man_ to follow.

"Renly is not the King," Robb spoke up, Joran assumed the lad had heard his thoughts on the matter.

"You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, My Lord," Glover said almost aghast, "he put your father to death!"

 _Obviously,_ Joran thought to himself, not wanting to interrupt.

"That doesn't make Renly the King," Robb said, answering Glover in kind, "he's Robert's _youngest_ brother. If Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can't be King before Stannis."

"Do you mean to declare us for Stannis?" Galbart Glover asked the obvious question once again, only with a different name.

"Renly is not right!" came the voice of a bannermen from among those gathered before murmuring broke out all around Joran.

"My Lords," spoke up Jon Umber as he rose from his seat and moved to stand in the middle of the congregation.

"If we put ourselves behind Stannis-," another man spoke up from the crowd before the Greatjon called them all to attention.

"My Lords! Here is what I say to these two Kings," Jon said before spitting into the dirt, earning a cheer and a few laughs from those present. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the south? What do they know of the Wall, Bear Island," he said looking at Joran before continuing, "or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong!"

Smiling at the Greatjon, Joran joined in the laughter that the man had brought about in his insults of the southern finery and lack of hardship.

"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again?" Jon continued, nodding as if agreeing with himself, "It was the Dragons we bowed to and now the Dragons are dead!"

Then, drawing his ugly Greatsword, the Greatjon pointed it at Robb Stark and proclaimed to all of them, "There, sits the only King, I mean to bend my knee to – the King in the North!"

With all eyes upon Robb, Joran watched as the man, years younger than himself, arose from his seat as if answering the call of destiny that the Greatjon had just given him.

"I'll have peace on those terms," came Ser Manderly, representing the voice of his father at the gathering, the only one among them with the mixed blood of the First Men and the Andals present, "they can keep their Red Castle, and their Iron Chair too. The King in the North!"

Nodding, feeling the rush of excitement at the thought of liberation from the southron prats of King's Landing, Joran rose from his seat, and looking out to all those assembled, said "Aye. For too long have we been under their boot. Too long we have given our blood for someone else's right to rule over us, when they themselves know not of the hardships we face in the north. Let them dress up in their fancy armor, let them play at war. And we, we'll just have to take the only real warriors left out of the equation for them."

Drawing Longclaw for the first time since crossing the neck, Joran Blood Bear, blood of the First Men and Lord of Bear Island, laid his sword down at the feet of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, and kneeling, looked up to his Lord, his King and swore to him "whatever the days to come bring against us, I will follow you until I die, or we win!"

"The King in the North!" Jon Umber bellowed, everyone else joining the cry with their own, until the words sounded off the walls of Riverrun and flew across the Riverlands for miles.

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

…

A week later, going down to the dungeons under Riverrun, Joran, only his axe in his hand, slowly made his way towards his destination.

Walking past cell after cell, each occupied with a different captive from the battles that had been fought outside of Riverrun and beyond, Joran, his very footsteps bringing a hush to the hallway, stopped at the last cell of the dungeons.

The cell belonged to Jaimie Lannister.

Approaching the two guards, both of whom were Tully men, Joran ordered one of them, "open the door."

The man opened the cell without argument, letting Joran right in.

Looking straight at his prize from the Battle of the Whispering Wood, Joran saw that the Lannister was a little worse for wear. His hair was dirty, the blonde that was supposed to be shining gold had been covered over with dirt and grime from the long haul to the dungeons. On his face there was some facial hair growing after days without the chance to shave, covering some of the bruising that had been left when Joran had first fought him a week ago.

However downtrodden the Young Lion looked, Joran knew that he hadn't lost any of his spirit.

For as he inspected Jaimie, who was chained to a wall and in a sitting position, Joran noticed that his defeated enemy was glaring up at him from where he was on the floor.

"If only looks could kill," Joran said casually to his prisoner.

"You would have fallen like a sack of potatoes the moment you entered my room if it were possible they could," Jaimie Lannister said cockily.

Lifting his axe and inspecting the blade in mock boredom, Joran continued to speak, "I heard that you have been having quite the visitors lately before me. First, Lady Catelyn, considering what she found out about what you had done to her son up in Winterfell. I see that the message she sent you was loud and clear."

"Were I not in chains, she would be dead on the floor," Jaimie said flatly, "just like her son should have been."

"Now, now, it is too late to assume that you would have done anything," Joran said in a tsk manner as he continued, "and let's see, the one after that, ah yes, Robb Stark, the King in the North. I heard from a man of mine who had been guarding you that, he had come in here with his Direwolf, Greywind, letting you know that, he knew about Joffrey's legitimacy."

"Well, huzza, it isn't a secret now, and everyone might as well let me know that they know while it's still early," Jaimie said, in a bored tone to mask any form of caring.

"Oh, I'm not here to tell you that I know, Kingslayer," Joran said, letting his axe fall back to his side and returning his gaze to the prisoner with a smile, "I'm just here to let you know what I think of it. For, I knew that you southrons were an odd bunch of folk, girls fucking girls, hells, even boys fucking boys. But brother's fucking sisters, outside of Targaryens, ha. I just never thought you all couldn't get any worse than what you were, but now, I see there is no limit to how diseased you people are."

"Well, I'm happy that your eyes have been opened, Blood Bear," Jaimie said flatly, turning his head away from his guest as though to escape from the Joran's gaze.

"Oh come now," Joran said, leaning his axe against the wall before continuing, "there is no need for you to be so gloom. For I think it makes sense, considering what we all know about Targaryens when they wedded and bedded each other. The term of flipping a coin sound familiar to you?"

Realizing that the Lion wasn't going to indulge him with so much as a glare, Joran stepped closer to the chained man. Cautious all along the way, Blood Bear avoided the reach of the other man's legs and coming to stand right next to the prisoner, continued.

"It would appear however," Joran said, viciously gripping Jaimie's long hair and forcing him to meet his gaze as he went on, "that the coin landed on insanity, when your _son_ was born. And now, the realm will flow with rivers of blood because of it."

All Joran could see behind the man's eyes was an empty gloom that had little emotion inside of it. The least he could have gotten from a man he had beaten was some emotion. Anger, sadness, hell Blood Bear would have allowed the Golden Lion to at least have some fear in his eyes, but no, emptiness.

Releasing Jaimie, Joran moved back towards his axe and returning his weapon to his hand, made to leave.

But, before he did, Joran turned back to the Kingslayer and said, "you might as well get comfortable with your living conditions down here. Cause if I have anything to say about it, you won't be leaving for a long time."

With that, Joran left the defeated Lannister and, whistling all the way down the hall, made his way back to the real world above.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9: Measures taken

 **Hello fellow fanfiction readers and welcome back to another chapter in the story of Joran Blood Bear. Now, before we begin, I want to send a shout out to all the reviewers for their support, criticism, and even suggestions. Hopefully in the coming chapter(s), the story doesn't disappoint and the direction I plan on going doesn't shock and hurt anyone's feelings on the approach I am taking. Please, keep reading and keep enjoying! Note: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire related, all people, places and things pertaining to these works of art belong to the one and only George RR Martin.**

Joran

 _Dear Joran._

 _I pray that all is going well in the Riverlands. I've heard reports coming into Robb's command tent daily on how well the defense of them is coming along quite well, and how the Lannisters haven't been able to cross the trident to reclaim the majority of the territory since they were put under your care. Please, before you put this letter down, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for how I acted. I know that it was hard when you heard from our King that I was to be going west with him, and I know that the last time we spoke that we didn't leave on easy terms. But, I won't apologize for the decisions that Robb has made thus far. Sending Catelyn down south to try and bargain with Renly Baratheon is a smart move. We need all the allies we can get, and allies who won't feel bitter about losing The North either. And, I know that, time hasn't softened how you feel about what Robb commanded Theon to do before we departed. I know that, he is an Ironborn, and he can be an arrogant prick at times, but the Young Wolf trusts him enough to let him out of site and let him try and bring his father to our side. We need ships Joran. Otherwise we won't be able to lay siege to King's Landing with hopes of success. But, leaving all subjects towards bad blood aside, I miss you. It was sweet of you to command Smalljon to look after me while you couldn't, and I'm personally happy that you chose him, he's a good man to be watching my back. I hope to hear back from you soon, all this fire and death here, it makes me worry about my little brother. And no matter how much taller you get than me, you'll always be my little brother._

 _From your loving sister, Dacey Mormont._

That was the contents of the letter Dacey had sent him earlier that week.

And Joran had felt his heart lift at his sister's sweet words.

It had been a month now since they had parted ways, and it had been a month since they had argued. Quite the shouting contest, Joran had a sore throat for the remainder of that very week because of it, not to mention Dacey's eyes had been bloodshot and red from crying the night before she had to ride out from Riverrun with the northern host. No matter what had happened that night, Joran had forgiven his sister the morning after.

But, along with forgiving her silently, Joran had rather carefully asked the Smalljon to keep an eye on her while they were in the Westerlands. The red haired man had been rather flabbergasted when the infamous Blood Bear had asked him personally to watch out for his sister, even honored. Joran could remember how the Smalljon, almost as tall as his father Greatjon, had knelt before him with a fist to his heart, swearing on his life he would do what he could to be sure that no harm would come to Dacey Mormont.

Joran had found the man commendable for his presentation, even before then, he had liked him. Smalljon had been quite the help in the Whispering Wood, as well as a terror during the Battle of the Camps. Joran probably couldn't have chosen a better man for the job he needed doing.

But, then again, all men who have a pleasing outside, always have a different inside to them.

Joran would have to keep that in mind when the northern host returned, as well as in his own letter he had to write to Dacey.

Aside from asking his sister how she was faring, Joran was going to have to thank Dacey for the four hundred extra Bear Islanders, aside from his own Oath Bound, that she had allowed him, without complaint from Robb, to keep with him at Riverrun as a type of assurance to the castle's defense.

As soon as the northern host was out of site however, Joran had set into motion his own plans for the four hundred who, in a sense were needed to defend a castle. Just not Riverrun.

Once all the coasts were clear, Joran had had his second in command, Garratt the Grey, his most trusted and loyal friend, take the four hundred Bear Islanders north.

Joran's instructions for them had been simple.

First, Garratt would leave two hundred men at Moat Cailin under the command of someone he trusted, to help the archers that had been put there, garrison it for the time being. Along with specific instructions for them to look not only south for trouble, but also northwards.

Although he went behind Robb's back about his intentions for the Bear Islanders, Joran couldn't leave anything to chance when it came to Theon Greyjoy, whose very name spelled trouble for the cause.

Over the years, since the protection of Bear Island had fallen to him, Joran had pushed back multiple Ironborn ships bearing the sigil of House Greyjoy from his shore. Even though the now old man had been defeated, his reputation scarred from a failed attempt at rebellion, Balon Greyjoy was anything but weak. And multiple times, he had tried to attempt to prove it by trying to take Bear Island, and multiple times, Joran had spurned him in his attempts.

The last thing that Joran wanted, was for Balon to have the opportunity to stick a knife into The North's back while he was away.

And, so to ensure that, Joran had given Garratt his second order.

He was to place one hundred men at Winterfell, under the command of another trusted Islander, to ensure the Keeps safety in the case of a betrayal from the Greyjoys, if they were to attempt to assault the capitol of The North.

The other hundred soldiers, under the command of Garratt himself were to spread a warning all across the stony shore to make themselves prepared to fight off any raiders that come from the sea, and after the word was sent, make for Bear Island and prepare to hold it.

For, if the Greyjoys did intend to betray them, Joran knew for a fact that Balon would send heavy hitters to try and take The North.

One of whom would be the dreaded Captain of the Iron Fleet himself, Victarion Greyjoy.

Joran had heard of him many times in his youth spent protecting his home. The man who dressed in full plate on the open seas with his kraken helmet and terrifying axe in hand. Known to be the Scourge of the open ocean and perhaps one of the finest warriors the Ironborn had ever produced from their ranks.

And, Joran had waited for the day to come when his axe would meet that of Victarion, to put a good reminder to the Ironborn that the Kraken while on land was no match for the Bear.

Sadly, though the day never came, and Joran had been forced to be content with would be reavers who sought to make a name for themselves.

All of them had met their ends on Bear Island, and, in compensation for their foolishness, Joran had taken each vessel as a trophy to study, so that he could have ships of his own that could match the Ironborn in speed on the seas, and perhaps one day, give them a taste of their own medicine.

But, all good things come with time.

Another heavy hitter for the Ironborn though, perhaps the last seed that Balon Greyjoy had at his disposal besides young Theon, was his daughter Yara.

Joran had heard of Yara Greyjoy, and he had been impressed by her reputation, of her years of reaving across the open seas, and beating everyman who's ever thought to fight her and win because of her sex.

In a way, she almost reminded Joran of his own sister Dacey, though sea born and perhaps more wild, but nonetheless a warrior maid.

Maid or no however, Yara Greyjoy would come face to face with northern steel if she thought to take The North when the men were away.

And so, for the good of his country and the irritation of his foes, Joran had set his own men as a precautionary detail, The North's own insurance policy if Greyjoy betrayed them.

Knowing full well that Robb wouldn't like the decisions he made, Joran would accept any punishment given to him by the Young Wolf, also knowing that the lords with Robb would end up commending him for his actions.

Until the time came though, for his King to return, Joran would settle for defending the Riverlands.

At first believing that it would be a difficult task, having considered southrons, not excluding the Riverlords themselves, to be weak and rather, girlish in a sense when it came to fighting in tournaments and mock battles, Joran's opinion had been changed rather quickly about them when he saw what they were capable of.

Brynden the Blackfish had been a major help in assembling the Riverlands finest lords at their disposal for Joran to command: Jason Mallister the Lord of Seagard, Tytos Blackwood the Lord of Raventree Hall after he had driven the Mountain from them while Robb was there, Jonos Bracken the Lord of Stone Hedge, and Ser Marq Piper, a knight of the Riverlands and the only none lord summoned.

With his three hundred Oath Bound and what forces they could muster from these Riverlords and their respective houses, Joran had set them into motion the day the King in the North left west.

Each house, along with his own northmen to help accomplish what Joran needed, were to each send out patrols night and day between Riverrun and the current base of operations of the Lannister troops at Harrenhal to make sure that Tywin didn't attempt to send out any of his troops, or Gregor Clegane for that matter, to try and pillage the Riverlands that weren't under his control anymore.

There were to be three scouting parties of riders in rotation continuously, each were to be five hundred men apiece, led by a competent commander, and there was to be a rotation of troops going in and out of each party through each week from the number of bannermen at their disposal.

One group was led by the Blackfish, who gladly took night or day patrols heartily. Another, was to be manned by Joran's third in command for the Oath Bound, a large Islander who went by the name of Jarak the Heavy. And the last group was commanded by Lord Blackwood, considering that he had manned the defenses of Riverrun after Edmure's captivity and was seen by Blood Bear as a steadfast man.

Over the course of a month, Tywin had attempted to unleash the Mountain out in the open, and twice the parties that Lannister's Mad Dog had had with him were destroyed, only with Clegane to hurry back to Harrenhal and safety, alone. Aside from the failed attempts with the Mountain, the scouting parties had destroyed many raiding parties that had been sent from Harrenhal. The only times that there had ever been more than three hundred Westron troops to leave Harrenhal, had been both of the parties of Gregor, consisting of five hundred that were both destroyed by either Brynden Tully or Jarak much to Joran's pleasure upon hearing that not only did the Mountain waste five hundred Lannister troops once, but twice and costing Tywin a good number of a thousand men before the Old Lion put the Dog on a leash.

Afterward, there had been a number of six attempts at letting loose three to four hundred man raiding parties and every one of them destroyed by Joran's scouts.

But, although every skirmish was successfully in favor of the defenders of the Riverlands, they were not without their costs.

Among the forces of the Riverlands that had been used, Joran had lost five hundred of them.

As for Blood Bear's Oath Bound, fifty good Islander lives had been taken, and most of them had been in the attempts to capture Clegane, which set Joran's blood to boiling continuously.

After that first month though, Tywin had appeared to stop his attempts at coming out, and all seemed quiet for a good week.

That same week, Joran had received the letter from his sister.

And, the silence sat with Joran uneasily.

For four days, the scouting parties had returned from their ventures without anything knew to report and for four nights, it had been the same.

Joran could only imagine what Tywin was waiting for.

Reinforcements from the rest of the Southron houses perhaps, some kind of aid from King's Landing, they could only speculate.

In the meantime, Joran had made certain to make preparations in case the Lion were to ever come out of hiding.

The first had been to simply pull out whatever was left of the unburnt harvests that the Riverlands had, as well as to gather as many of the smallfolk to the safety of Riverrun as quickly as possible in the instants that the scouting parties were to fail.

Next, to ration what resources they had to feed the people as well as the men defending them.

And on that note, Joran had not only gathered the smallfolk, but a third of every Riverlords bannermen in full force to Riverrun as well, advising each of the lords to not let their gates open at all until the Lannisters were gone.

Joran knew that Tywin wouldn't risk sending what men he had in an attempt at sieging a lord's castle, even the small raiding parties, knowing full well that the scouting parties would be there fast enough to take his forces from the rear if he tried.

If the Lion came out in full force though to attempt at sieging a hold, Joran would meet it gladly with the force that he had at his disposal.

Aside from his fifteen hundred for scouting, Joran had accumulated around ten thousand trained soldiers at Riverrun, and from what few men he could gather from the smallfolk willing to take part in defending their lands and homes, he had another thousand at his command.

So, Joran had his own army of twelve thousand five hundred, majority trained, and the minimum being trained as they spoke.

That was where Joran was, looking over the training of simple farmers by warriors from Bear Island or the bannermen of the Riverlords.

Walking among the men upon the training ground, with Brynden, relieved from scouting duty for the day by the gallant and pretty Ser Piper, Joran looked at those who had held pitchforks for most of their lives, being taught by men who had been commanded to wield swords.

But, along with keeping the bannermen occupied with training what Joran considered recruits, he had also warned all of his soldiers that no one was to harm or take advantage of any of the smallfolk too old or injured to defend themselves, as well as to leave women and children alone unless they wanted to meet his axe.

At first, Joran had had the pleasure of decapitating over fifty men, common and privileged alike, who had thought it would be easy go against his ruling.

But, after the first week, nothing ended up happening.

"Has there been any trouble today?" Joran, having asked the same question before to the Blackfish over the course of the first month.

And, the old knight answered as he always had, "no my Lord, nothing today, everyone seems to be well behaved, like a bunch of misbehaving children after a good whipping."

"Hm," Joran could only say in turn, having had the feeling of uselessness since he was put in command of Riverrun.

"I think the only trouble we've had these days is from my dear nephew," Brynden continued, not noticing the noise Joran made.

"What is he complaining about now," Joran asked, pressing his forefingers against his temples and rubbing them as he walked.

"The usual," Brynden answered, listing each from memory "why he isn't allowed to command his own bannermen, why he isn't able to help with the preparations of defending his lands, why he isn't allowed to help with anything at all."

"Heh," Joran huffed, "and I answer him again, because he is the most idiotic Lord I have ever met, he allowed the Lannisters to run rampant in his lands, burning whatever they wanted, his first _real_ battle he gets captured, and he's asking why he's not allowed to be anywhere near me or my command table."

"As much as I enjoy my nephew to squirm at the fact that another man besides me has put him in his place," Brynden said, continuing the conversation, "there is still the fact that he is the acting lord until my brother passes on, and he does have a rite to command at least some of his men."

"Pf," Joran blew threw his lips, "I give Edmure even the smallest chance at being at the front of any scouting party, and he'll probably end up trying to storm Harrenhal, getting men killed and himself captured once again."

Nodding, Brynden said in defeat, "aye, I could see that happening."

Making their way past the training ground, Joran led them to where the Blacksmith of Riverrun was located.

Finding the man at work at the anvil he had put outside of his shop on the warm day, Joran approached and shouting over the man's hammering asked, "how is that project I set you on coming!?"

Looking up from his work, the Blacksmith looked at Joran and said, "finished it yesterday sir."

Disappearing into his shop, it took the Blacksmith a mere five seconds to return with what Joran had asked for.

Taking it gratefully and paying the man twenty silver for it, having felt generous, Joran inspected the _project_ that he had ordered to get done.

It was a round, iron shield.

And a big one at that.

"I'd say that that thing would have been good enough to make at least twenty good spear heads for pole arms," Brynden said, remarking at the size of the thing.

"Aye, it would have," Joran said, slipping his arm through the strap and gripping the handle of the giant piece of iron that, when lifted, covered his body from thy to neck.

Joran had asked for its making with many specifics, all of which he had written down for the Blacksmith, who lucky for him could read them.

First, the shield was to be layered over and over with round pieces of the best oak that the Riverlands had, considering that they didn't have any kind of Ironwood down south of the Neck, oak would have to do. Then, once the pieces of wood had been nailed together, each on smaller than the closest one to the arm and making a round pyramid by the time it was finished, a layer of iron was to be laid over the top and nailed to the wooden pieces in turn. Upon the Iron layer, instead of the Direwolf sigil of House Stark, there was the Bear sigil of House Mormont.

It was heavy, but, Joran had carried worse up on Bear Island for fun.

"What do you plan to do with this monster?" Brynden asked, marveling at the size of the round shield.

Hefting his shield up, trying to feel the movement he had with it, Joran answered Brynden with a question of his own, "who wears, the thickest armor in Westeros, Ser Brynden?"

"The Mountain," Brynden stated irritably, failing to see the point Joran was trying to make.

So, to make it clearer, Joran looked around briefly and finding a lone, thick wooden post set for the smallfolk for training, moved over to it with Brynden following to witness.

Standing before the post, Joran lifted his new shield and drawing it back, struck out with it as hard as he could in a punching motion, splitting the wood in two almost like butter.

Turning back to Brynden, whose eyebrows were raised in surprise at the feet of strength, Joran, indicating to the post, said, "I'd say that post was reasonably harder than a standing man clad in normal armor. The Mountain, who has his own armor made heavy and thick, will be three times that hard, not to mention taller if reports are true. But, while he has to carry all of his weight on his shoulders, being forced to keep it on for his own protection, this shield, which I can use as a second suit of armor in a sense considering how large it is and as a second weapon to keep an enemy away from me, I can discard it whenever my arm gets tired of holding it, and be faster for it."

"You intend to go toe to toe with the Mountain that rides," Brynden said astonished, "and with that thing no less. I knew you were crazy Joran, but, I never thought you were this crazy."

"It won't be crazy if it works," Joran said with a small smirk through his beard."

"If that fucking thing helps you kill the Mountain," Brynden said, pointing at the massive iron shield, "then I'll buy you enough Golden Arbor to last you all winter."

"Dare to shake on it Blackfish," Joran asked, extending his free right hand towards the old knight.

With a devious smile, Brynden Tully accepted the hand and said, "I hope for both our sakes that it does work lad. For one, I don't want to be the only sensible one left to be leading this rabble against the Lannisters, and for another, Golden Arbor doesn't seem that hard to buy for a live man."

"Thank you for your consideration my friend," Joran said, taking his hand back.

Out of all the Riverlords that had been left with him, Joran trusted Brynden the most. Blackfish had shown himself to be a worthy choice to send out with a command of his own, leading the scouting parties since Blood Bear had brought up the idea. And, Joran had found him to be a good friend in return.

"My Lords," came one of the men from the training grounds, bringing both Joran's and Brynden's full attention to him, "the Lady Catelyn has returned."

…

After he had put his new shield up in his personal quarters, Joran with Brynden Tully at his side, made his way through the castle of Riverrun to the Main Hall, where the Lady Catelyn Stark would no doubt be awaiting him in order to inquire about the defense of the Riverlands since she's been away.

"How do you think the negotiations with Renly Baratheon went," Joran, wishing to know the Blackfish's opinion before actually hearing the truth from the Lady Catelyn.

"Well," Brynden began as they rounded the last corner of the halls of Riverrun until they came upon the doors of the Main Hall, posted by them were two Riverrun guards, "considering the time she spent down there, I'd assume that it all went well."

"How can you be certain," Joran asked.

"If things hadn't gone well, then Cat wouldn't be here and the first news we'd have heard about her would be her as a hostage under Renly Baratheon, who would've asked for a ransom and for Robb to bend the knee, were he a different man."

Nodding at the sense Brynden made, Joran did not press the man further for an opinion and making the rest of the way towards the doors in silence, entered the Main Hall to find a surprise.

What surprised Joran wasn't the fact that Edmure was there with the Lady Catelyn, considering how the Lord of Bear Island had distanced himself as far away from the acting Lord of Riverrun as he could when it came to defending the Riverlands. No, what caught Blood Bear off guard was the third person in the room with the two Tullys.

Taking a good long and thorough look at who the person was, a southern knight for sure due to the armor that he was wearing, but, at who Joran believed to be a man at a distance, approached to find that it was a woman, a tall, blonde headed, strongly built, and masculine looking woman.

"Ah, my Lords," Edmure Tully said as his uncle and Joran approached, "glad that you could finally join us, my sister Cat has been waiting to hear from Joran how well the Riverlands have been since her departure."

Meeting the Lady Catelyn's eyes, Joran could see that she seemed, rather traumatized underneath as she began to speak to him.

"I trust that the holding of the Riverlands has been quite successful under your command, Lord Mormont," Catelyn asked.

"It has been my Lady," Joran said with a nod as he hooked his thumbs into his belt, "the Lannister presence here has all been dealt with, save for the majority of the Lions holding out at Harrenhal this past month. But, by quick action and great timing, we've been able to keep them there for the long hall since you departed. All twenty thousand of them."

"And I trust that all those people outside of these walls have been well taken care of, kept safe from any attempts from the enemy to bring fire upon the Riverlands?" Catelyn went on, her gaze never leaving Joran.

"Aye," Joran said simply, "we've rationed what we could from all that was left that we could find from what the Lannisters didn't burn their first time coming through the Riverlands. And, we've made sure that there has been no more innocent bloodshed in the time spent dealing with the Westron forces."

"Quite the commander this one Cat," Brynden said right next to Joran, "he's done quite the job here since you and your son have been gone, and has been forcing Tywin to remain at Harrenhal for quite some time to starve."

"I am happy to hear it uncle," Catelyn said, offering the older man a smile before gesturing to the ox of a woman, "this is Brienne of Tarth, she has come into my service and is under my protection."

The woman named Brienne, looking at Joran rather grimly, gave a curt nod to him in greeting, saying nothing.

"And where has she come from, into your service my lady," Joran asked the mother of his King.

"From the King's Guard of Renly Baratheon," Catelyn answered.

"So," Joran went on, "I take it that he has accepted the terms that Robb sent you out to deliver."

"I'm afraid not," Catelyn said, becoming as grim as the tall woman next to her, "things have become, quite…complicated in that regard."

So, telling Joran and Brynden what had happened with the negotiations and of the Shadow of Stannis Baratheon killing Renly, leaving Brienne to be blamed for his murder, along with Catelyn herself considering how she too had witnessed it, the Lady Stark waited for what they had to say.

Running a hand through his beard, Joran thought on it a moment while Brynden spoke, "that is…quite a complication Cat. Are you sure that it was Stannis? Not saying that it wasn't by any means but, this, this is just unheard of. Black magic for murder? It's like something out of a fairy tale, and not a good one at that."

"I know what I saw Uncle," Catelyn went on, "and Brienne can vouch on my word, having seen it with her own eyes as I have."

While the Tullys spoke, Joran remembered back when he was on Bear Island, to when he had killed that Wildling who had spoken to him about the White Walkers. From the legends that he had grown up listening to, Blood Bear knew that the Others were creatures of magic. Could it be that, Stannis Baratheon has some sort of magic that is just as frightening as the White Walkers but, more controllable?

"Well," Brynden Tully's voice brought Joran back to the subject at hand, "whatever it was that Stannis has done, Renly's dead, and now the Stormlords belong to Stannis, who already had a sizeable fleet to begin with and now who knows what he'll be capable of once he sets sail for King's Landing."

"Aye," Joran said grimly, "though he won't have the combined forces of the Reach along with the army he's going to be getting from the Stormlands, Stannis's force will still be one to be reckoned with when the time comes that we have to face him."

"Who says that we will have to face him," Edmure Tully spoke up, asking as always the most idiotic question that he could think of, "we could sue for peace with him and he may give us our independence willingly if we help him gain the Iron Throne."

"He won't need us to help him take the Iron Throne Edmure," Joran said, taking a seat upon one of the many benches that lined the tables of the Main Hall and looking at them all from his position, "the Crownland forces are too small to defend against him, the only advantage that the Boy King Joffrey has over Stannis is the Red Keep and the walls of King's Landing to keep him safe. When the battle begins, Joffrey's forces will amount to nothing against Stannis's army. Not unless the Reach intends to aid the Crown in some way or another, or Tywin finally leaves Harrenhal to head south, which, I highly doubt considering that the West is on fire."

"So then let Stannis have it," Edmure continued, not seeing the point Joran was trying to make, "once he has King's Landing, and the Crown, we can barter a truce with him and perhaps obtain the independence that Robb wants."

"It's not that simple Edmure," Joran went on, "I've heard of Stannis many times over. He's a hard man, a _grim_ man, and however honest he is compared to most of the southron snakes that live down there, he isn't one to be taken lightly. Once he obtains the Crown, he won't part with The North willingly. He won't ask for a truce, he'll make his terms simple, _bend the knee to him,_ and he'll spare us, pardon us for our _treason_ , and allow us to go home with our lives. Do not bend the knee however, and he will fight us tooth and nail until there is nothing left of our host and only Brandon Stark to rule The North if Robb is killed in the fighting. So, I tell you now Edmure, Stannis won't give us The North, not unless we pry it from his grasp ourselves."

A silence spread through the Hall after Joran's statement and after a few moments, it was Catelyn who broke the silence.

"Joffrey isn't the only one manning King's Landing," she said, "we have word that, Tyrion Lannister is there, acting as Hand to the King in Tywin's stead."

Having heard of the Little Lannister, Joran felt rather shocked at the fact that Tywin had entrusted the task to a man who was known to be a drunken whore monger. But, then again, the Lions were full of surprises these days.

"Did he take any of the Lannister forces with him, from Tywin's own army I mean," Joran asked Catelyn, in case she knew.

"Word reached Renly and myself that Tyrion had taken on the Mountain Clans of the Vale under his command, brokering to them weapons and gold to help them fight the Lords of the Vale if they fought for the Lannisters."

"Do we know how many of them there are?"

Shrugging with a sigh, Catelyn said, "they were an estimated five hundred or so when Tyrion arrived at King's Landing, it could be exaggerated however due to the amount of truth rumors and gossip have to them."

Nodding, Joran only needed that much to go off of.

"Well," Blood Bear said, "if Tyrion Lannister is as intelligent as people say he is when he isn't whoring or drinking, then I would say that King's Landing has a rather slim chance of escaping Stannis's clutches."

"Can we be sure of that though," Brynden asked in a chuckle, "granted, the Imp is smart no doubt, but his five hundred Clansmen won't be enough against thousands of Stormlanders armed to the teeth, nor will the one thousand City Watchmen of King's Landing, saying that it will be a massacre would be putting it too nicely."

"Only time will tell Ser Brynden," Joran said with a small smile, "only time will tell."

Before Brynden could enquire as to what Joran meant, the doors to the Hall were thrown open by a Bear Islander, dressed in a shirt of green that marked him as one of Joran's men and a chainmail hauberk, who hurried over to Joran's side and bending low to his lord's side, whispered words into his ear.

Smiling at the news, Joran whispered back to the man, and clapping him on the shoulder ordered him to get some rest before he rode out again.

"Well," Edmure asked Joran, who stood up before all of those present, "what was that about?"

His smile unwavering, Joran answered Edmure in a casual manner, "the Old Lion is making his move, Jarak's man there has just informed me that Tywin Lannister's forces are pouring out of Harrenhal as we speak, and from the direction he seems to be heading, I believe he means to try and bypass us by moving his forces south past the God's Eye and into Reach Lands in order to evade Riverrun in his return westward home against Robb."

"And now we've spotted him it would seem," Brynden said with a grim smile about his face, "what are your orders Blood Bear."

Returning the smile, Joran placed a hand upon Brynden's shoulder, and turning their backs to Edmure, Catelyn and Brienne, said, "gather the rest of the scouting parties, take a large abundance of oil with you and make for the border, I've told the man to ride as hard as he could to get back to Jarak and inform him of my plan."

"Which is?"

"I'm going to set the border between the Riverlands and the Reach aflame," Joran put it simply, "I plan on giving the assumption that I am giving chase to Tywin from the rear with the full force of Riverrun, but, with the scouting parties consisting of mostly horse, you'll be able to beat him to the border and line it with enough oil that the Lions won't be able to cross without getting burned."

"And with what you plan on bringing up behind him, you'll end up trapping him," Brynden said in disbelief at what he was hearing.

"If we march fast enough to look as though we are giving a good enough chase," Joran said, "then yes."

"Certainly you don't plan on taking all of our force against the Lannisters?" Edmure asked from behind Joran and Brynden.

Looking over his shoulder at the youngest Tully present, Joran answered, "no. I plan on leaving two thousand soldiers here for the defense of Riverrun. Upon my departure, you shall see to it that all the women, children, old and infirm are safely behind the walls of the castle. And, dare I say it aloud, I will be leaving you in command of Riverrun until I return."

"If you return you mean," Edmure said blatantly.

Shrugging off the disrespect, Joran simply said, "Aye, if I return."

"You'll be outnumbered," Catelyn said, aghast at Joran's plan, "Tywin Lannister has twenty thousand men-."

"He has seventeen thousand men Cat," Brynden said in correction, "we've made him pay well enough since you've been gone."

"Fine," Catelyn said in a huff to her uncle before returning her gaze to Joran, "either way, you'll still be fighting him, two to one. Your, what, nine thousand against his seventeen thousand. And what's worse, you intend to corner him, which will in turn make him fight all the fiercer against you."

"Well," Joran said, scratching his chin, hidden behind his beard, "there is the fact that Tywin and his men have been starving in Harrenhal for a good month since he's been there."

"Aye," Brynden agreed, "ever since Robb went west, cutting old Tywin's supply route off, the old man had tried to send raiding parties out to forage from the weak in order to feed his men. And in turn, he paid dearly in numbersfor believing we wouldn't catch him."

"Starved, probably sick at this point, and now on a forced march south in order to escape," Joran said with a smile, "his seventeen thousand men won't count for anything due to attrition standards, and cavalry awaiting them on the border and heavy infantry from their rear, I wouldn't be surprised if they started falling upon their own spears in order to escape us."

"You're mad," Catelyn said in surprise, "what makes you so sure that you can win?"

Stepping closer to his Lady, Joran Mormont said confidently to her, "know thine enemy, Lady Catelyn. For a good month I've known Tywin, as patient as he's been trying to wait me out, he believed that with time the dreaded Blood Bear would come after him while he was safely behind Harrenhal. But now, with his men starving, their morale spent to the point of nonexistence, Tywin has no choice but to move, otherwise, he loses more men. With Roose Bolton patrolling the trident as we speak to make sure that Tywin doesn't plan on marching across the Ruby Ford again, the Old Lion has been cornered for a good month now, and in turn, I was only waiting for him to get hungry enough to make the next move. And now that he has, this is a perfect opportunity to take the fight to him."

"Well, then let's do that instead of waiting around talking about doing it," Blackfish said in earnest, "Before he gets away for Gods' sake!"

"Aye," Joran said, turning from Catelyn and telling Brynden, "gather the scouting parties, make for the border and prepare to bring fire to the Lannisters."

Nodding, Brynden the Blackfish left in a hurry, his black scaled armor making noise as he went.

Huffing, Joran turned back to the sibling Tullys and said, "if word doesn't reach you of the battle within four days, we've lost, if it does, well, best be ready to celebrate."

Edmure nodded and said, "good luck, Blood Bear."

Joran returned the nod and made to leave the Main Hall without another word.

Before he would leave with nine thousand angry Riverlanders however, Joran had to write a letter to his sister, in case he didn't have a chance to after.

…


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10: The Battle near the Gold Road

 **Hello and welcome back my fellow Fanfiction enthusiasts/readers, to another instalment to the grand story of Joran Blood Bear. Now, to those of you who believe that the numbers of the coming battle are rather farfetched in the chances of victory going to the Northerners and Riverlanders, let me make a clear note to you all: it isn't just the nine thousand with Joran the Lannisters have to deal with, there is also the three scouting parties, each of them five hundred men apiece, the majority of Joran's cavalry, waiting for the seventeen thousand Lannisters at the border. So, in actual reality, it is nine thousand infantrymen with Joran, fifteen hundred riders with the Blackfish, and the total number comes out to ten thousand five hundred against seventeen thousand. I know, I know, it seems as though there is no hope of them winning, or at least winning with minimal losses, but then, there is the large quantities of oil that Joran had the Blackfish take with him to the border. There are no implications, but, for all you who believe yourselves to know a thing or two about strategy, I hope it'll be obvious what is about to happen. So please, enjoy. NOTE: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and fire related, all people, places, and things pertaining to these works belong to George RR Martin.**

Brynden

 _There they are,_ Brynden the Blackfish, mounted on his horse, thought to himself, looking out to where the seventeen thousand Lannister troops were hurrying in good order to make it out of the Riverlands, led by none other than Tywin Lannister himself, with the Mountain, a giant riding a horse, beside him.

A day prior to their arrival, Brynden had sent the fastest riders at his disposal to track the movements of the Lannisters and just as Joran had predicted, Tywin was making for the border of the Riverlands via the most concealed route possible, going through both tree and brush to conceal them. The Lannisters had been hugging the coastline of the Gods Eye for the majority of their journey, before breaking away and heading straight for the Gold Road. Which was the best indication that there was a border between the Reach and the Riverlands.

But, between the Lannisters and said Road that morning, were fifteen hundred horsemen and a five-hundred-yard line of oil another fifty yards wide that they had laid out the night prior, just waiting to be lit.

Now, all that was needed was for Joran to arrive with the other nine thousand soldiers, not to mention the signal, and Brynden would gladly light the fire for the Lannisters to walk right into.

"Gods," came the voice of Ser Marq Piper to Brynden's right, "there's so many of them. What does Blood Bear intend to accomplish here, the utter destruction of our forces?"

"What's the matter Piper," came the voice of Lord Mallister form the Blackfish's left, "scared you'll get your pretty armor scratched by all those Lannister lances out there."

"No," the knight said in response to Jason Mallister, "I'm scared of the fact that I might not live another day after this one."

"We've all got to die someday boy," Brynden said, looking over his shoulder at the blonde headed knight, "it's just a matter of when and where it happens, and all you have to do is face it with what courage you have with you at the time."

After seeing the nod from Piper, Brynden silently chastised himself. He hated lying to men about dying, for the sole reason that it would make them feel better about it when in all reality, there was nothing to feel good about when it came to killing and the loss of life. At least, to Brynden it was, and some of the more seasoned soldiers with him for that matter.

But, although he hated lying about it, Brynden though it was necessary due to situations like the present one. For if Piper went on and on about how he didn't want to die today, soon, talk would spread and even worse, some bloats would end up leaving. Which was all well and good for them, it would just be bad for those with the balls to hold their ground, for surely, more would die because of it.

"Ser Brynden," came the voice of Lord Blackwood to the Blackfish's far right, bringing the old cynical knight out of his brooding.

Looking over at the old Lord, Brynden listened to what Tytos was about to ask.

"When will we be expecting the signal from Blood Bear?"

That was a good question.

Before departing for the position that Joran had decided he should lead the fifteen hundred of them to, he had told Brynden to listen for a hunting horn. The Blood Bear had said specifically, that when the Lannisters were close enough, far enough into the muck that the oil made, he would blow the horn, and the Blackfish would light the blaze.

It was risky to say the least.

Gods, Brynden wouldn't even know if Joran was actually there to blow the horn when the time came.

If he was, then that was all good and dandy, but then there was the question as to whether or not Brynden and the men would be spotted before he blew the damned horn.

Looking over to Lord Blackwood, Brynden simply said, "soon I'd imagine, considering how close they are to us now, not to mention the fact they are heading straight this way."

It was the truth. If the Lannisters hadn't spotted their position by now, then they ended up choosing the blind for scouts. Which would be laughable on Brynden's part to say the least.

Then, there came the distant calls from the Lannisters, much to Brynden's surprise, having spotted them.

And, Brynden didn't feel like laughing.

"Their coming," Joran's man Jarak said to Brynden's far left, stating the obvious.

"Aye," Brynden said with a nod as he watched as Tywin commanded Amory Lorch to take the field and prepare to attack.

Lorch prepared to attack alright, with cavalry first and foremost it would seem.

Witnessing the sight of a long line of heavy horse being mobilized right in front of him for a grand charge, Brynden guessed that there was perhaps, four, maybe five thousand knights about to head straight for them.

"Prepare an arrow," Brynden commanded the archer standing below him, a boy who he had specifically asked for to take the shot with or without the signal.

As the boy set to work with flint and tinder to make a flame, the Blackfish watched as the enemy cavalry, with Lorch at their forefront, charge their position.

"Seven help us," came Jason Mallister's voice in shock, and Brynden could already hear the piss that was dripping from Ser Piper's very own legs.

"The Gods don't give a shit about us lad," Brynden said, gazing out towards death itself, and smiling bitterly, believing that he would end up dying before his older brother Hoster back in Riverrun.

Then, there came the sound of a horn blow in the far distance, as well as a multitude of screams from the rear of the Lannister infantrymen.

Joran had given the signal.

"Hurry boy," Brynden said in earnest for the lad to hasten.

No doubt by then, Joran was taking out the Lannister archers in the rear, just in case they were trying to move into position to fire blindly into the woods and soften them up before their own cavalry could make it to a killing blow.

"It is done Ser," the archer said, holding a flaming arrow in one hand, and his bow in the other.

"Well done," Brynden said, looking briefly at the boy before returning his gaze to the enemy that was fast approaching, who probably couldn't hear the rear attack due to their horses thundering hooves, which made them oblivious to say the least.

"Fire on my mark," Blackfish said, keeping his gaze on the fast approaching cavalry, that were closing in on the intended position faster by the minute.

"Hold," Brynden said once the boy had the arrow knocked and drawn, prepared to fire the moment he was told to.

"Hold."

Brynden could see Amory Lorch as he yelled the command to lower lance, all those thousands of men prepared to skewer them as they just stood there, waiting for the match.

Once the first rider made it to the fifty-yard line, Brynden ordered, "Loose!"

The arrow hit its mark in the solid earth, and just like that, thousands of knights in the middle of the fire were cooked in their armor, their horses burning alive, and the death cries of man and beast alike dominated Brynden's ears. And those on the very edge of the fire, were confused and trying to reign in their horses, the beasts terrified of the sudden burst of flame around them.

But now was the time for them to move.

"Jarak," Brynden ordered the attention of the Oath Bound commander, "take your half of the cavalry, make for our left, slaughter any of those Lannisters who aren't burning, I'll take mine right, once we've finished, we'll meet Joran in the middle."

Saluting with his sword, now drawn, Jarak the Heavy rode out westward to flank the Lannister cavalry there and destroy them as needed.

Drawing his own blade, Brynden ordered his own half eastward to flank the survivors in that direction.

The battle was commenced, and hopefully, they'd be alive by the end of it.

…

Joran

Crushing a Lannister footman under his shield, Joran's eyes rose to meet the blinding sight of fire rising high into the sky in the distance.

Smiling to himself, Joran, axe in hand, Longclaw upon his back, dressed in his plate mail and bear helmet realized that his plan for the Lannister Cavalry had been a success, now there was only battle to be had, and the side who wanted it the most would claim victory that day.

Having taken the Lannister archers by surprise in the rear, they themselves forming up in order to rain arrows down upon Joran's cavalry across the way, Blood Bear had blown the horn, and charged head first into what he considered to be the back end of his enemy's forces.

Dealing with the tired and hungry archers without much difficulty, and slaughtering them to a man, Joran had let loose a war cry to all nine thousand soldiers with him, common or highborn, to join battle with the Lannister footmen.

They were outnumbered two to one this day, but Joran knew that day, numbers would not count for anything for his enemy, who neglected to feed his war machine for a full month.

That would be the last mistake Tywin Lannister made if Joran had anything to say about it.

So, Joran had gone all around the battlefield, killing one tired Lannister soldier after another with little effort, looking for the Old Lion to capture him.

The moment the Lannisters realized that their Lord was a prisoner, was the moment Joran had the day.

But, he first had to find Tywin, and then take him off of his horse.

Cutting down a Lannister soldier, screaming for his life as he had charged Joran, Mormont continued to look around for any sign of Tywin.

And, after carving his way through the Lannister lines, Joran had found him right at what use to be the front of his army, looking on the intruders to his rear from behind his helmet atop his horse.

What he also found however, was a problem when it came to getting to Tywin.

Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, dismounted from his horse, swinging his sword here and there, cutting down one man after another in defense of his Lord.

Feeling a sudden urge of anger build through him, Joran watched as man after man was killed by Clegane. Blood Bear knew full well that it had been Gregor and only Gregor who had been capable of killing his Oath Bound. Now, Joran had to repay the Mountain for all fifty of his dead warriors who he had known as friends before their untimely demises.

Killing every Lannister body that got in his way, Joran, his long axe bloody and his shield justly so, made his way towards the Mountain.

It was almost like a dance as he went. With one arm, Joran was cutting open Lannister armor with his axe and cracking open helmet after helmet with a well-placed chop. As for the other, there were many caved in chests upon that field, and many more dented in helmets from the blunt force of his other weapon.

His vision turning red, Joran, no other enemy before him but the one man who could be taller than the Greatjon, roared out to the Mountain, "Clegane!"

Halting in what appeared to be a search for easy prey, Gregor Clegane's eyes fell upon Joran, who, raising his arms out to his sides as if welcoming the Mountain like a long lost friend, yelled, "come fight a man worth the trouble you coward. Fight me, someone who can fight back. I am not the women and children you so enjoy butchering, I am a man, and I will show you that even a man, can topple a mountain."

Hearing what sounded like a laugh come from behind the massive helmet of Gregor Clegane, Joran placed himself in a fighting stance, pacing this way and that, all the while following the movements his enemy made.

Twirling his Greatsword effortlessly in one hand, the Mountain then pointed it towards Joran and asked "so, you are the Blood Bear that has made me starve in Harrenhal all this time?"

"Aye," Joran said, keeping his shield at the ready, "and once I have my way, you'll be starving in hell."

Then, Gregor made the first move with a roaring bellow.

When his foe raised his massive Greatsword, Joran's shield followed the direction of the strike, which landed like a hammer onto an anvil.

Joran felt blow after blow hit his shield, the only thing keeping him alive at that point.

There was no skill, no finesse to Clegane, only brute force and intimidation.

And, just as Joran had suspected, brute force wouldn't get through his shield no matter how many times Gregor tried, and the only one who would be intimidated by anyone, was Gregor once Joran began his turn in their duel.

Gregor attempted to grab the massive shield, and in retaliation, Joran swung his axe hard into the Mountains left foot, cutting it in half.

This produced a cry of pain from the larger man, and another vicious onslaught of attacks from his Greatsword.

Joran easily blocked them all, and numerous times, he stomped upon the bleeding foot of the Mountain, eliciting more cries of pain from the giant.

Sidestepping one blow, Joran found the Mountain's sword falling straight into the earth, and coming up behind him, swung his axe hard enough to crush a lesser man's skull.

But, the blow only managed to knock the thick piece off of the wearers head.

And with a speed that Joran hadn't noticed before, Gregor spun around, trying to cut his enemy in half at the hip.

Thrusting his shield in the direction of the oncoming attack, Joran parried the Greatsword way and in quick succession, slammed it onto Gregor's bleeding foot.

Once again, the Mountain hammered away at Joran for what seemed like a good half an hour for Blood Bear, whose shield began to feel quite heaving on his arm.

Realizing that he was getting tired a lot faster than Gregor was, Joran thrust his axe head into Clegane's exposed face, making the large man retreat a few steps away from the long weapons reach and give Mormont a brief respite.

Removing his shield from his arm, Joran grabbed the rim of it and throwing it as hard as he could towards the Mountain's injured foot, making the man step further back to avoid more pain to come to his foot.

Charging forward with his axe raised, Joran gripped his weapon with both hands and began to thrust, chop and slice wherever there was purchase against the Mountain.

Parrying and attacking, dodging and thrusting, Joran landed two cuts upon Clegane's face, as well as another number of foot stomps upon his opponent's injured body part.

But, Joran wasn't without failures during the dance of death that he was having with the Mountain. Twice the large man bull rushed Blood Bear, and twice, he had almost found himself without a limb.

Continuously moving so that Gregor wouldn't be able to hit him, Joran saw that his opponent was beginning to grow tired, and that was when he struck with his next move.

Feigning a thrust to Gregor's face, Joran retracted his axe and shooting the blade in between the larger man's legs, hooked an ankle with the beard of his axe and with a grand pull, forced the Mountain out of position.

And, in a follow up move, Joran did the last thing any man would have dared to attempt.

He pushed the off balanced Gregor Clegane over and allowed him to fall to the dirt.

Taking the opportunity to strike, Joran raised his long axe and bringing it down, intended to end the fight with a good chop to the face.

But once again, the Mountain's speed caught Joran off guard, and his axe head only found the earth before Gregor snapped it off.

Retreating away from Clegane, Joran carefully reached for Longclaw on his back as the Mountain rose to his feet.

Drawing his valyrian steel bastard sword, the heirloom of house, Joran held the blade in both of his hands as Gregor Clegane looked on, amused at the sight.

"Heh," the Mountain laughed, "you really think you can beat me with that tiny thing. I'll cut you in half before you get the chance Blood Bear."

"I'll be counting on it, dog," Joran said, tightening his grip on his sword, preparing to attempt only what an insane man would.

With a final roar, the Mountain charged Joran, and Joran charged to meet his foe head on.

When Gregor swung his mighty Greatsword, Joran swung as hard as he could in order to match his opponent's strike.

As their blades connected, any man who witnessed the fight would remember what they saw for the rest of their lives.

Joran's Longclaw, had cloven the Mountain's blade in two.

Following up with his attack, while his opponent's shock was fresh, Joran cut off Gregor's hands that had been still holding the hilt of his sword and sent them off into the air across the battlefield, disappearing into history.

Moving around the large man, Joran cut through his thick armor effortlessly with Longclaw, as though it was a knife through butter.

Soon, the Mountain's blood stained the ground around him, and Joran finally cut Gregor at the calves, forcing the savage knight to his knees.

Keeping the point of his blade upon his enemy, Joran made his way back to facing Gregor, who now defeated, looked at the two stumps of his hands in a paralyzing shock that even the most dangerous men came to know in their own time.

"Any last words before I send you to whatever Hell awaits you Clegane," Joran asked, breathing heavily as the words left his mouth.

Removing his eyes from his stumps, Gregor Clegane looked up to Joran Blood Bear and said two words.

"Do it."

Without a second thought, Joran swung Longclaw hard and sent the head of the Mountain tumbling to the earth where his axe head lay.

As the body of his fallen foe crumpled to the earth, Joran looked around him to find that the battle had dwindled down some.

The fifteen hundred cavalrymen he had placed at this spot, had finally joined the battle, having routed all that was left of the heavy cavalry that the Lannisters had, they had made quick work of whatever foot soldiers were left like wheat before the scythe.

In an hour, Joran could see Riverlanders and Northerners chasing after surrendering Westron footmen, intent on vengeance against the army that Tywin had lead against the Riverlands.

After two more hours, all became silent and the battle had been won.

Joran had remained silent and still over the body of Gregor Clegane, all of the battle rage leaving his eyes, and sense's return.

Looking around the field, Joran saw the survivors of his army, setting to looting the dead of the enemy.

Staking Gregor's head upon the tip of Longclaw and picking up his axe head, meaning to replace it upon another haft, one reinforced with metal bands this time, Joran walked around the battlefield with his trophy.

Soon, after wandering awhile, showing them all that the Mountain was no more, Joran found the Blackfish and Jarak the Heavy standing over perhaps the only survivor of his little trap.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the West, taken hostage and gagged by Brynden Blackfish Tully.

Noticing Joran's approach, Brynden's face turned into one of shock when he saw the head upon Longclaw's tip.

"Gods'!" was the only thing the Blackfish could say.

"You owe me some Golden Arbor Blackfish," Joran said grimly, before smiling mischievously.

"Aye," Brynden said, after returning to some semblance of normality, "that I do."

Dropping the head before Tywin, who refused to remove his gaze from the cold earth, Joran allowed the Old Lion to look at it before the man's gaze came to him.

Green eyes, both calculating and angry glared up at Joran Blood Bear, and all the Mormont could do was stare back, knowing, he had defeated one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms.

"How many did we lose," Joran, removing his gaze from Tywin, asked Brynden.

"Many," Brynden said, his mood turning grim, "five hundred of the fifteen hundred cavalry you sent here, and six thousand soldiers of the nine thousand you brought."

"Gods," Joran gasped in disbelief before continuing angrily, "damn it, damn it all to Seven Hells. That's too many men, men we needed. And I led them to their deaths."

"You led them to a victory that has brought an end to the Lannister hosts in the Riverlands Joran," Brynden said, trying to calm his friend, "and many of the men that we lost today are grateful to you for allowing us to capture Tywin Lannister, ending any chance of further conflict here until otherwise."

Shaking his head, Joran went on, "it's still too many. Even if the lives spent were worth the prizes that we've gained today."

"Don't worry Joran," Brynden said, clapping a hand onto Mormont's back, "all will be well when Robb returns to find Tywin Lannister defeated and sharing a cell with Jamie Lannister in Riverrun."

Wiping off his nose, Joran reluctantly nodded and said in agreement, "aye."

And so, gathering all that was left of their force, three thousand foot and one thousand horsemen, Joran lead them back to Riverrun, with Tywin Lannister as their prisoner, the charred body of Amory Lorch, and the head of the Mountain as their prizes of victory.

…

The march back to Riverrun, Joran had allowed his men, now exhausted from what they called The Battle for the Gold Road, to hold a simple walking pace through the brush on their way back to the castle.

It was the least Joran could do for the three thousand foot soldiers that had survived the battle that he had lead them into. With what time they had to themselves before their departure, Blood Bear had allowed his men to dig graves for all those who had fallen that were friends, while at the same time, hanging the bodies of their fallen enemies to the many trees that lined the Gold Road as a warning in case any of the surviving Lannister men thought to be brave enough to harass them on their way home. All in all, Joran had respected those dead whose lives had meant something, to freedom and liberty from the tyranny of the Iron Throne and whichever King would now sit upon it, while at the same time, left the bodies of his enemies as a warning upon the borders of the Riverlands and Reach, to any who would try and deny them their freedom.

The message was clear as day, if any of his enemies disregarded it, they would meet a similar fate.

"Still silent I see," Brynden said riding next to Joran at the head of the men. "Makes me fearful of what you could be thinking."

Looking over to the Blackfish, Joran simply said, "I'm only thinking about the message we left behind for the rest of the Southrons. And, I'm hoping they heed it lest the worst come."

Nodding, Brynden said in agreement, "aye, I hope so too. You can be sure that the Reachmen won't be bothering us, if they end up seeing what happened to the majority of the enemy force, they'll turn around and go back home if they have a brain. And as far as I can tell and remember, the Reach is the only one south of us who could pose a threat should they side with the Iron Throne."

Joran could only imagine a bunch of flowers marching towards him on a battlefield.

It almost made him laugh during his grim and dark mood.

"Well, hopefully they have brains," Joran said, "otherwise, they'll find what brains they do have littering the earth after a good axe swing to the head."

Brynden didn't say anything to that, but in an attempt to change the subject from death and blood, he asked, "speaking of axes, what do you intend to do with that headpiece in your saddleback?"

Remembering the piece of the weapon that had served him so well before its fight against the Mountain, Joran thought on it a moment, placing a hand over the flap of his saddlebag before answering, "I think I shall have the blacksmith back at Riverrun refit the axe head onto a new haft. And I'll probably have him reinforce it with some metal bands so that it won't break as easily next time I take it with me to battle."

"A good idea," Brynden agreed, "perhaps once your axe is remade, perhaps you can name it."

"What would I name an axe?" Having never thought of naming his favorite weapon before, considering how weapons with names but no merit behind them seemed silly to him, Joran wondered about a suitable name for his weapon.

"Beats me," Brynden said casually, "but, that damned weapon is lucky to have in my opinion. One of the few weapons to ever harm the Mountain, and its user to survive. If a weapon with a tale like that behind it didn't have a name, it would be quite a shame."

Thinking it over briefly, Joran said, "I'll think of something."

Before Brynden could continue or suggest names for the new axe, one of the outriders that Joran had assigned to scouting the area in case of an unseen attack came riding up to him and the Blackfish.

"My Lords!" the man called in haste before making his horse come to a slow walk right next to the two commanders, "we have caught a trio of urchins wandering the forests."

"What concern are urchins to us," Brynden asked before Joran could, "you realize we aren't wet nurses out here heading back to Riverrun to feed some suckling babes, send them on their way."

"I would my Lord, but," the man paused, thinking over his words carefully before continuing, "one of them claims to be the daughter of the Lady Catelyn!"

"Ha," Brynden scoffed at the remark, "are you in the right mind lad. My niece's daughters are in King's Landing. How could one of them make it all the way out here without us knowing, eh."

As Brynden berated the man, Joran thought on it a moment. In truth, it did seem rather far-fetched to hear news of a Stark girl escaping the Red Keep. Yet, the only reports that ever came to Riverrun about the girls in King's Landing, only mentioned Sansa Stark. And in truth, this was the first that Joran had ever heard of Arya since the campaign began.

Halting the berating of the scout, Joran broke in commanding the rider and Brynden, "call the men to a halt for a rest and you bring the urchins to me, I wish to examine them personally to ascertain the truth of who they are."

"Yes Lord," the rider said before racing off to where he had come from.

"I don't think that we have time to call the men to a halt Joran," Brynden said.

"We have time if it means we've somehow come upon a long lost sibling of our King," Joran, attempting to sound dutiful said, speaking in utter assurance, "plus, the men are tired, let them rest their bones awhile before we march on."

…

Seated against the trunk of a small oak, his horse tied to the same tree behind him and grazing, Joran breathed in deeply the clean air around him as he waited for the coming of the urchins, one of whom claimed to be a daughter to Catelyn Stark.

In time, the rider who had informed him and the Blackfish earlier approached Joran, the three he had spoken of before him.

From a distance, Joran counted three boys.

One of them he could easily tell to be a boy due to his fat build and how he carried himself, one that not many people would miss, and as he came closer, Joran was sure when he saw the squashed face of the young person, looking tired and sweaty from just walking the short distance towards him.

Another, taller than both of his traveling companions, well built from a hard working life perhaps, dark of hair and a hard stare about him, Joran could tell was a strong boy, almost a man in fact if he could tell right.

The last boy, the smallest of the group, with untidily cropped brown hair and a mad look about him, looked almost sickly to Joran, as though if he were to pick the lad up and thrust him against a knee, he would snap.

When they were close enough however, Joran noticed his mistake.

The runt of a boy, wasn't even actually a boy, but a girl that looked very close to a boy.

As the group came to a stop before him, Joran nodding, allowed the scout to go rest, leaving Blood Bear alone with the, urchins.

"So," Joran began, eyeballing them all one by one before he left his gaze to remain upon the girl, "my scouts tell me that one of you boys claims to be a Stark Girl."

Standing to his feet, Joran walked up to the three, almost like a predator looking over his next meal, and moving behind them, asked them one by one, to ascertain the truth of their claims.

First, the fat one, "What is your name boy?"

"Hot Pie, Milord," the boy answered, avoiding Joran's gaze.

"A fitting name," Joran said in earnest, for the lad looked like a pie, "I don't suppose you could be the Stark girl? Granted, you'd be big enough to be three Arya Stark's at the most. But no, just a boy it seems."

"Leave him be," the taller, leaner boy said rather blatantly, earning a hard thump to the arm from the girl next to him.

Bringing his eyes to the next boy, Joran came to stand before the lad. A good head taller than the boy, Blood Bear looked down upon him when he asked, "and you would be?"

Holding Joran's gaze with his blue eyes, the boy answered, "Gendry, Milord."

"What was your craft, Gendry," Joran asked the boy, truly curious.

"I was a Blacksmith's apprentice, Milord," Gendry answered.

"Where did your group come from Gendry? And more importantly, where are you going?"

"We come from Harrenhal, Milord," Gendry answered, "after the Lannisters left, we found ourselves a chance to escape and we took it. Once we were in the clear, we began making our way to Riverrun, Milord."

"You know, if you hadn't been found by my men, you would've passed it up," Joran said with a laugh, "Riverrun is north, and you all were heading west."

"Don't have a map milord," Gendry said, hiding the flush that Joran knew was coming upon the boy in embarrassment.

"Eh," Joran shrugged, "I won't hold it against children to lose their way in the woods."

"We aren't children," the smallest of the group broke in, "and we weren't lost!"

Leaving Gendry be, Joran moved to the last of the group and looking down at the little girl before him, he played along with her deception of gender, "really, from the looks of things, you all are barely young enough to be called children, but not old enough to be adults. But, perhaps you could enlighten me as to where your sense of direction became rather, misguided?"

"As I said to the first man who asked, we were heading to Riverrun," the girl said, adamant and defiant like a wolf blooded woman would be, "granted we don't have a map and we kind of veered off course a little, but we would have made good time if you hadn't stopped us."

"And what is in Riverrun for you, boy," Joran asked, wanting to hear the words come out of the girl's mouth as to her identity.

"My family, Milord," she said, the fire in her lowering quite substantially as she spoke, "my mother just came there recently, and I hoped to see her again."

Dropping down to a knee, Joran came to eye level with the girl and with a small smile, asked, "and what's your mother's name, _girl?"_

Shocked at the fact that he knew, Arya Stark took a moment to regather her thoughts before answering. "the Lady Catelyn Stark."

Nodding, Joran could believe it to be true what the scout had told him.

Arya Stark had been found.

"We were heading to Riverrun ourselves," Joran said, his smile remaining upon his face, "we are friends to the Tullys and the Starks, Lady Arya. It would be my honor and privilege to escort you and your friends there, to your Lady mother."

After hearing her name, Arya appeared to Joran to be, happy, if she didn't look it to hear it.

Allowing her a moment to regain her composure, Joran listened as Arya said, "thank you, My Lord."

Standing up from the ground and looking down to Arya, Joran said with a nod, "the pleasure is all mine my Lady."

Then, gently gripping her shoulder, Joran lead Arya and her two friends to where Brynden was seated, chewing on a biscuit.

"Blackfish," Joran said, disturbing the older knights snack.

Looking up to find Joran and the three that they believed to be urchins, Brynden Tully asked, "yes?"

"Meet your grandniece, Arya Stark," Joran said, bringing Arya to stand before him so Brynden could get a better look at her, and realize that she wasn't a boy, "and Arya, meet your famous Tully uncle, Brynden, he will be looking after you and your friends until we reach Riverrun, and your mother.

"Blackfish, I expect you to get well acquainted with her before we arrive home, and find a place for her companions until we reach the castle, we can find work and shelter for them once we get there."

"Aye," Brynden said, the shock disappearing, to be replaced by a small happiness as he looked Arya over, memories of Catelyn at her age flooding in.

Before he could leave the four of them, Joran was stopped by Gendry.

"Milord," the younger man asked, "are you the one they call Blood Bear?"

Nodding, Joran answered him, "I am lad."

Seeing the boy's face light up in excitement, Joran, tired and not in the mood, couldn't help but deny him the chance to ask anything more.

Patting Gendry on the shoulder, Joran advised him, "get some rest lad, you've earned it for helping Arya Stark."

With that, Joran moved away from them back over to his horse Kisha, and returned to sitting, and then, taking a good nap before they were to move out again.

 **Hey everyone, I wanted to ask for some opinions on a name for Joran's axe and having thought of some, I wanted to see what the viewers would want the name to be. (Wrath of the North, Wrath of Winter, Bear's Fury, Mountain Chopper, Mountain Bane.)**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11/Interlude: Ripples in a pond

 **Greetings and welcome back my reviewing readers to the song of Joran Blood Bear. I have read the reviews and I appreciate all of the many different ideas for the Axe, as well as some hints that some of my own names maybe went a little bit too, Stark, for a Mormont and also the kindly put fact that, not every name has to have 'Bear' in it. I love bears, it's in my nature, no pun intended. So, I have decided that Joran's Long Axe shall be named, Northguard, all the suggestions that came with the reviews were good and awesome, but, after one reviewer's suggestion to make the weapon fit the wielder, I couldn't resist naming it this. If I hurt anybody's feelings that I didn't choose them, sorry, but hey, it is a good name that fits Joran's weapon perfectly in my opinion. Now, for this chapter, I have kind of moved away from Joran for a bit to kind of show briefly the impact that his actions have had around the Seven Kingdoms. Once again, let me apologize if this chapter doesn't get up right away, because every character that I have in mind to present here, all of them are different and it will be kind of hard to capture the hate, fear, and respect that each of them will be holding towards Joran Blood Bear. I hope you enjoy. NOTE: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, all characters, places, and things pertaining to these works belong only to George RR Martin.**

Tyrion

While his sister Cersei paced angrily around his room within the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion, holding the letter that was the cause of her seething anger, read it over multiple times before setting it aside with a huff.

Pinching the brim of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, Tyrion listed everything that had gone wrong for his family since the very beginning of this, _War of Five Kings,_ and added the news of the letter to that list.

The first major complication, was Jaimie's capture by the Young Wolf and this, Blood Bear, in the Whispering Wood, which in turn led to the lifting of the siege around Riverrun. After that, Robb Stark then turning his armies west, destroyed what was supposed to be a new army to aid Tywin at Oxcross. Then, as of now, the West began to burn on land.

The next major complication, had been the Greyjoys joining into the fray. Bringing fire to every port of the south, the Ironborn ships and reavers, dissuaded somehow from going north as Tyrion had first hoped to cause at the very least a headache for the northerners, had instead caused as much devastation as they could by sea while every man needed against the Young Wolf had been away. And currently, Kevin Lannister, Tyrion's uncle, was at his ropes end in trying to bring a stop to the attacks of the Iron Fleet, led by the infamous Victarion Greyjoy.

Another complication had then turned into Renly Baratheon's death.

When the young King had kicked the bucket, every Stormlander he had had, went to Stannis, who was no doubt beginning to make his way to King's Landing even as he spoke. Currently, Tyrion had set his sell sword Bronn to managing the Gold Cloaks in beginning preparation for a siege. The littler man had been helping, trying to find a way to best defend the Capitol until his sister had arrived screaming to him the news and throwing the letter in his face.

And then there was the most recent addition to the headache Tyrion was having, the defeat and capture of Tywin Lannister in what men had begun to call the Battle near the Gold Road. The first time he skimmed over the letter, he hadn't been able to believe it. Tywin Lannister, the most admired and feared man in all of the Seven Kingdoms, had been beaten in the field.

And by a northerner other than the Young Wolf no less, this, Joran Blood Bear, the savior of the Riverlands and the Terror of the Southern Kingdoms.

Tyrion had even heard that the moment that Joran Mormont had returned with his tale of the battle, minstrels and bards had given him a song. And through the Master of Whisperers Varys, who appeared rather unsurprised at the news, the Half Man had learned the name of said song.

 _The Bear who toppled a Mountain_.

Fitting, considering how the letter had also informed Tyrion that Gregor Clegane had been slain by said Bear, with the ingenious use of a heavy and thick piece of wood and iron. It sounded such a simple thing to use, he never would have thought or expected that it would be that effective.

"I want him dead," Cersei screamed, bringing Tyrion from his thoughts on the person she was referring to.

"I figured as much," Tyrion said, returning his eyes to his sister. "How do you suppose we do that then, Hm?"

"Assassins, poison, anything will due, just kill him," Cersei said, becoming less fiery and more chilling in a matter of seconds.

"You do realize that the moment we attempt anything, the repercussions of our consequences will be severe," Tyrion said, keeping calm as his sister continued her pacing, as though she were their family sigil in a cage for show.

"I don't care," Cersei said angrily, her temper flaring again, "the northerners have insulted us for too long, our house looks weak, the other houses are beginning to doubt our strength now that _this_ , has happened."

"And what if the attempt fails hm," Tyrion said, knowing for a fact that he won't change her mind by simply asking his sister to let it go, "as you can already see, this, Blood Bear is a force to be reckoned with. Poison could be a way to go about it, but what if he expects such a thing from the likes of us? We won't be able to get a spy into Riverrun, we couldn't even if we wanted to. An assassin would have even less chance at a close up, personal attack on the man, he who can topple a Mountain and live to tell the tale."

"YOU DOUBT OUR INFLUENCE TOO!" Cersei screamed, grabbing a vase and throwing at Tyrion, who managed to duck in time and find one of the few pieces of art he had to decorate his room, fly out his window.

"Influence matters little if we have nothing to back it with Cersei," Tyrion yelled in return, becoming tired of his sisters wails and her childish anger bringing him to his wits end, "now, we don't have men to back it, we don't have the reputations of our father and brother to back it now that they rot in Riverrun cells, and we don't have the time, or have you forgotten the fact that Stannis is on his way here as we speak. Have none of these things registered in your mind?"

"Nothing to _back_ it with," Cersei said, glaring at her brother evilly, "we'll just have to see about that."

After the words left her mouth, Cersei left Tyrion to dwell on these thoughts alone.

Leaning back in his chair, headache in full swing, Tyrion ran a small hand through his head of hair as he thought to himself, _how did it come to this?_

His family's army had outnumbered the northerners two to one, the Riverlands were all but there's.

The moment the Young Wolf came, followed by Joran Mormont, everything went to the Seven Hell's for them.

Then and there however, in his solar, Tyrion felt a small twinge of fear and respect towards this worthy opponent who now celebrated his victory in the Riverlands.

Joran Blood Bear, the first time Tyrion had heard the name, he had wondered if the man had come from North of the Wall, Robb Stark enlisting the aid of Wildlings to help him fight. The Half Man wouldn't have held it against the boy, considering he had his own Vale Tribesmen who were terrifying and savage. Now though, after it had been told to him that Joran belonged to House Mormont, Tyrion could only speculate where the man had come from, out of what many had considered a small island that was a backwater in the eyes of the rich south.

After taking the office of Hand, Tyrion had used his resources to investigate Joran Mormont before the trouble happened.

From Varys and many a sailor who had been to Bear Island, Tyrion found the tale of Joran to be quite the achievement, even though no one would have heard of it if he had stayed on the Island.

A brilliant tactician and a fierce warrior, Tyrion could only speculate how a man like that had come to be born in The North, to a family of little renown.

For his reputation, Tyrion respected the man. As for what he was doing, destroying the armies of his House the same way he had done away with Wildlings and Ironborn on his own territory, the Little Lion feared Blood Bear.

If they survived Stannis's attack, and if ever such a foe were to make his way south, Tyrion would have to read a lot more books to help him if he were to defend King's Landing.

And, perhaps if he were to survive this war, Tyrion would have to find out if Joran Mormont was a drinking man as well as a warrior.

…

The Hound

Walking along the halls of the Red Keep, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, a man who had been seen by many to look the grim part of bodyguard to the King, looked to be happier in his strides.

The rumors had spread and, after a brief meeting between the Queen Regent and King Joffrey, they had been confirmed to Sandor's own ears.

Gregor Clegane, the Mountain who rides, was dead.

At first, Sandor couldn't believe it. His brother, a man who many men feared, the terror born of House Clegane, couldn't have been beaten in just one battle. It was inconceivable.

When he had heard who had done Gregor in, Sandor's opinion quickly changed.

He had heard of Joran Blood Bear, a grizzly man for grizzly work, something that the Hound had found in common with the northerner.

After hearing that it had been the Mormont, Sandor's insides had felt empty. HIs hate, his drive to live and kill, so that one day he would come to face his brother and kill him for what he had done, had all but vanished. And he hated it.

His mind had raced at what he had come to believe for a brief time as robbery, the robbery of his chance to deal vengeance out to someone who he had hated above all others, someone who had helped make Sandor into the killer that he was today.

The night after his duties had been done, Sandor had drunk flagons of wine and whored in the name of his brother's death in celebration.

Today, the Hound felt like a new man, though, he wasn't. The scars that Gregor left on him would always be a reminder of what he was. Who he was.

And with Stannis on his way, Sandor would have to be the killer that was needed to get the job done.

Not for his King or the Queen Regent, not for fucking King's Landing, but for someone else, someone special.

That same someone, who was walking towards him at that very moment, bringing Sandor from whatever thoughts he was having.

His Little Bird, Sansa, who, having quite the smile on her face that morning, looked to be happier than the Hound had seen her since her father had passed.

As they came closer to each other, Sansa's complexion faded at the sight of him and with a nod, she greeted Sandor, "good morning."

Halting in his tracks and accidentally in her way, Sandor gave Sansa some semblance of a nod and replied, "it is a good morning, my lady, um, how are you?"

As she looked up at him with the queerest look on her face, Sansa answered Sandor, "well, I am well."

Then, Sandor realized he was appearing too forward with his Little Bird. Taking a step back, he said, "that is well, and good, Little Bird, I am happy to hear it."

"Are, you alright," Sansa asked, raising in eyebrow in question.

"Better than I have been in years, Little Bird," Sandor answered, a small smile appearing on his face.

Returning his smile with one of her own, Sansa said, "I am happy to hear that you are well, um, Hound."

"Still trying to avoid calling me Sir, Little Bird," Sandor said, in what sounded like a playful tone, which warranted a blush from Sansa, nodded in answer.

Feeling a warm feeling on the inside of his belly, Sandor noticed Gold Cloaks on patrol walking at the end of the hall that he and Sansa were in and changing his posture, looked down at his Little Bird, unable to get rid of his smile, said "I have matters to attend to with the King, I hope I haven't kept you long with the hello."

"No, it is fine Hound," Sansa said before Sandor moved around her and on his way to his duties.

 _STUPID, what has gotten into you, what were you thinking,_ how are you _? Why not just say blatantly you're pretty, maybe she'll understand your intentions then you damned idiot!_

Before he could make it too far, Sandor heard humming come from Sansa behind him. It sounded grim, poetic, almost exactly like the song he had heard in the tavern last night. What was it called, the bear who something?

 _The Bear who toppled the Mountain,_ it finally came to Sandor, who looking over his shoulder at his Little Bird and watched her happily go her own way, imagining the happiness she must be feeling as he was at the death of his brother, however far apart their reasons were.

Sandor even imagined that, perhaps, he could speak, kindly to her again that day, and not appear so, timid.

…

Petyr Baelish

Coming to his destination at the precise time he had been requested to appear, Petyr Baelish, dressed in his silver clothes with his houses brooch upon his neck, looked around throughout the dark and empty corridor of the Red Keep he stood in with suspicion, especially considering that this very specific one had a room belonging to someone who despised him greatly for his opinions.

Knocking upon the door of that very room, Littlefinger awaited the owner to open it and admit him in.

Hearing footsteps approaching the door, Petyr waited for the dagger in his back to strike, if there was one there, no one couldn't be too ready to meat death in his opinion.

After a brief moment, the doors latch was moved and it opened to reveal the room owner that Baelish considered, slightly dangerous due to her position.

Cersei Lannister looked at him for a brief moment before popping her head out of the door to her room to check the corridor just as Littlefinger had.

"Were you followed?" the question was so obvious that Petyr couldn't help but smile before answering.

"No and at the least, not to my knowledge your Grace," Littlefinger said with a slight nod, "you never know when a bird of Varys's could be lurking around the corner, prepared to run back to the Spider with news of my dealings."

"As always," Cersei said, stepping into the room and out of the doorway so Petyr could enter, "your words speak truth to them in some sense of the word."

Stepping inside the room casually, finding the bedroom of the Queen Regent practical, a gold and red draping for every space there was.

"Being a good liar your Grace," Petyr said, turning back around to face Cersei, "I can only sound _facts_ to my words, not truths."

"We can argue the difference later," Cersei said calmly, stepping past Littlefinger and moving to a table that held a flagon of wine and two cups, "for now, I wish to know what you can tell me about our little Lysa in the Vale."

"Sadly," Baelish spoke while Cersei poured them both a glass of wine, "she has refused my offer of an alliance to the Crown, and my marriage proposal. Believing as some of those loyal to you do now, that the northerners are not to be trifled with, not in the least, especially after the current developments of the War at present time."

Cersei, two cups filled with wine, turned back to face Littlefinger and said, "typical, the moment a larger fish gets caught, the rest of the species avoids the waters it was swimming in like a plague."

When she offered him the glass, Petyr accepted it gratefully, but cautiously, only held it, never taking a sip.

"Now, what was it I said about facts compared to truths," Petyr said, with a small smile as Cersei drank from her glass of wine.

After swallowing some of her wine, Cersei said, "well, I didn't summon you here to discuss facts and truths, there is a delicate matter that I require your assistance with."

"Hm," Petyr always did like the phrase, _delicate matters,_ "and what would these matters consist of, your Grace?"

"Blood Bear," Cersei said with an edge to her voice, "I want him dead, and I need you to do it for me."

"Afraid to get your hands dirty your Grace?" Petyr knew he treaded on dangerous ground, considering how he overstepped his boundaries one day publicly and almost lost his life at the hands of this woman's guards.

"No," Cersei said plainly, the anger so evident on her face that Petyr could have probably painted a portrait from it if he had been an artist, "what resources I have, have been recently occupied with the preparation for siege, any contact I own at the moment, I've seen to it that they have been put to good use to keep my sons safe."

"Quite noble of you, your Grace," Petyr said, looking into his cup briefly before continuing, "but I am but a simple man, with a simple title and a simple business. Why not consult your Master of Whisperers about, such a ploy as this is?"

"Because, the eunuch won't carry it out in time," Cersei said, her teeth grinding quite loudly, "as is his way to go about it, he told me that there was a time and place needed and currently, there isn't one that he can exploit."

"Yet, I can," Petyr said quietly, as a fact.

"You aren't a player that goes by rules of secrecy like Varys does, Lord Baelish," Cersei said simply, "where Varys would deliver any killing blow on an eventful night, full of noise so no one would spot him, you would do it on a bright, quiet day in full view of the public, allowing your work to be surveyed by all."

"I do rather enjoy some of my dealings to be done during the daylight," Littlefinger said slyly, "but that is just my way of going about in the world."

"Your ways are needed currently," Cersei said firmly, "I require murder. A murder that will remain in the hearts and minds of all those who dare to challenge me and my family, as well as our right to rule. And you can do that for me, if I'm not mistaken."

Stepping passed Cersei, Petyr was in the process of thinking.

Setting his cup of wine, untouched, upon the table it had come from, Littlefinger turned back to the Queen Regent and asked, "perhaps I could, for there are facts that I have heard from my own sources that could give us, quite the murderers to deal out this, blood portrait you wish painted."

"Facts again," Cersei said in a scoff before sipping her wine and continuing, "what facts could you have heard that Varys hasn't openly told the Crown about."

"Only the ones that are quite critical to the order of the realm, your Grace," Petyr said hintingly, "but, as for myself, I prefer a chaotic route to preserving such order. And, it is a fact that, Robb Stark is promised to marry a Frey girl when the war is done."

Seeing that Cersei wasn't amused, Petyr went on, "yet, he is already married to another. One who isn't a Frey."

Noticing the gleam in the Queen Regent's eye, Littlefinger listened as she spoke, "betrayal from the Young Wolf. Now I've heard everything."

"Not quite," Petyr said, continuing with his facts, "the Frey men that the Starks had are going home now, and with their departure, Robb is forced to return to Riverrun, not having enough men to sustain his campaign throughout the Westerlands."

"Surely he'll attempt a new deal with Walder Frey," Cersei said as a question.

"There is that possibility," Petyr said, "but, if I know Old Frey as well as I think I do, he will wish the slight to his family punished with blood, not more deals."

"Can we trust him to carry out the murder of Blood Bear, if we make assurances that, if the Young Wolf were to join his Bannerman in death, that he would receive full pardons from the Crown for his, involvement with the rebels?"

"Only if we added another culprit to the crime you wish to be carried out," Petyr said, his smile growing slightly, "and I have just another one, perhaps the only northerner to ever lose to your father during the course of previous events."

"Bolton," Cersei said in disbelief, "the Lord of the Dreadfort won't be easily turned to our side, he's too smart to join the losing side."

"Not if I assure him that his actions will make the losing side, a winning side," Petyr said, grasping his hands together, "when Robb Stark meats his end, which he will when the opportunity presents itself, Roose Bolton will be equally pardoned and we could promise him the title of Warden of the North. For as we all know, the Bolton's and the Stark's haven't always been friends. And, as I know men with greed in their hearts, Bolton will accept this as a rare opportunity."

"And when will such an eventful murder come," Cersei said, her eyebrows raised in anticipation for what scenery her canvas would take place upon.

"Alas," Littlefinger said, releasing his hands and bringing them behind his own back, "just like Varys, there has to be a time and a place for all good things to come, and they will come, whilst we wait. Unless you wish to, rethink, my proposal for someone else to carry out your orders."

Cersei paused for a moment, and glaring directly at Petyr as a cat did a canary, she collected her thoughts before answering, "make the arrangements, send both of the men the deal. When the time does come however, I expect there to be results to my liking."

Bowing to the Queen Regent, Baelish promised, "it shall be a murder that no one has ever seen before, or will ever see again."

Leaving the room, Littlefinger set out to make the arrangements for quite a show to come.

…

Margarey Tyrell

Sitting at the dinner table in Highgarden, with her father Mace Tyrell, her brother Loras Tyrell, and her grandmother Olenna, the Queen of Thorns, Margarey, a widow now after the death of her beloved Renly, listened in as her father lead the discussion.

"I say that it is time that we finally stepped back into the War at hand, mother," Mace said, his belly pressed up against the dining table as he spoke and ate at the same time, "if we do not aid King's Landing against Stannis, who knows the repercussions that will come towards us if we fail to-."

"Repercussions from _whom_ ," Olenna said with a laugh, as though her son was joking, "if what the ravens sing to us is true, then the great Tywin Lannister is defeated and captured. Without him, the Lions have only their roars without any teeth. Are you afraid to get a good spanking from Cersei Lannister if you do not go and help fight of the Stags, eh?"

Knowing that her grandmother believed all men, not just her son, to be lesser creatures compared to women, Margarey couldn't help but simply put, "but it is our duty to aid the Crown, Grandmother."

"Where was this sense of duty while your husband was still alive, my dear," Olenna said nonchalantly, "had he lived after that poor assassination by his own King's Guard, you and he would have still been considered as traitors and rebels to said Crown you wish for us to defend."

"You've read the letters from both Baelish and the Imp, mother," Mace said, bringing the Queen of Thorns attention back to himself instead of his daughter, "the promises of a new alliance would do our house well with the Crown, even a marriage between Margarey and King Joffrey would be enough to cement the new power that we could gain now that Tywin has been dealt with by Blood Bear."

"There's that name again," Olenna said, pointing at her son with a fork, "Blood Bear, now there is a real man to be sure. Gods, I wonder how he does it all, and yet I also wonder how Tywin could have lost to such a man. A killer and what's worse, he's a Mormont, he belongs to one of the poorest houses in Westeros. But, despite his lack of physical resources, his personal ones are quite frightening."

"You sound as though you admire him, grandmother," Loras spoke up at last, having only been picking at his food with his fork during the majority of the conversation.

"In a way, I do," Olenna said, a mischievous smile coming to her lips, "he sounds strong, strong enough to withstand the blows from a Clegane. He sounds intelligent, intelligent enough to know when to strike out against his enemies. And, from what gossip one hears from different chirping ladies that have never actually seen the man, he is handsome in a rough way."

"Grandmother!" Margarey said in mock surprise at the Queen of Thorns words, "how could you say that about a man who continues to disrespect the ruling houses, not to mention the fact that he nearly burned down the forests upon our border during his battle with Tywin."

"The same way that I know that a little someone," Olenna said, looking over at Margarey slyly, "loves to sing a certain song whenever no one is around. What was it again, something concerning a Mountain and a Bear?"

"What!" Both Mace and Loras bellowed in Margarey's direction at the notion that she had an interest in Joran Blood Bear.

"I rather found the song's tone quite catching Grandmother," Margarey said, not showing the slightest interest in her father's or her brother's protests of her singing a song about a man who she believed to be interesting, "that doesn't mean however that I would enjoy meeting the man that song represents."

"A shame that you don't," Olenna sighed, "I wonder what it would have been like to have an actual man in Highgarden to talk to."

"Enough of this," Mace said, rising from his seat in the table so fast, that his chair flipped to the floor, "We are going to aid our _true King,_ not a northern pretender and his Bear. We are going to forge an alliance with the Crown that even Robb Stark and Joran Mormont won't be able to withstand. And that is final."

"Trying to sound like a real man are we," Olenna said as her son and grandson stormed out of the dining room, "you are failing miserably."

With the departure of the men, Olenna and Margarey were left to dine alone.

"So, tell me my dear," Olenna said, beginning a new conversation now that the men were gone, "have you started to think about the infamous man?"

"What infamous man?" Margarey asked in turn, feigning ignorance with a smile.

"Joran Mormont," Olenna said sternly, "what do you think of him?"

Feeling herself flush a little at the thought that her Grandmother would ask such a question, Margarey, setting her fork down upon the table, placed her hands on her lap as she answered, "I think that he is, a fine sounding person."

"Explain _fine_ my dear, it isn't quite the only thing that rumor has about him," Olenna demanded before taking a sip of wine from her glass.

"In my opinion, he has the makings of a knight," Margarey said, seeing no reason to hide the truth from her Grandmother now that her father and brother were off preparing to take the fight to Stannis. "Perhaps an even greater knight than Loras."

"Oh now that is rich," Olenna said after swallowing the wine, "a northerner who despises southern knights is considered a good option for one. It sounds like the Mountain all over again, it sounds like a mistake."

"If we could show him that not all of us who live south of the Neck aren't all that bad Grandmother," Margarey said, stating her case, "then perhaps he could see us as more of a peaceful people rather than the bloodthirsty ones he has seen."

"Peaceful, Margarey, don't speak about peace during war, it is such a sad irony that makes people believe ignorantly of the one who said such things," Olenna said, picking up her glass of wine again and inspecting the contents before continuing, "not to mention the fact that we aren't as peaceful as you wish to believe."

"I know Grandmother," Margarey said, knowing full well her grandmother spoke the truth.

"Do you have an interest in Joran Mormont, Margarey," the Queen of Thorns asked out of nowhere.

"What?" Margarey couldn't believe what her beloved Grandmother had just asked her.

"I asked if you had an interest in him," Olenna repeated before carrying on, "if you do, that is all well and good, he could make you happier than Renly had during the brief time you were married to him. He could perhaps give you some rank in the North when all of this is over, it isn't as much as becoming a queen, but it is something. And who knows, you could even come to love him if it all went well with the match. But, it is all about what you would want my dear, and whatever you choose, will be enough to turn the tide of this war for better for either place you choose."

Margarey thought a moment before answering.

She thought of the possibility of Joran accepting her hand, if the proposal was made. How he would treat her, how Margarey could be swept off of her feet by such a famous man, feared and respected by his peers and his enemies. They could live far away in a small log cabin in the north, and live happily together if she just wanted it.

But, Margarey didn't want to live a simple life with a Lord that was considered to belong to a lesser house than her own.

Of all the things that Joran could possibly give her, he couldn't give Margarey what she really wanted.

"I do not want to have a marriage proposal made to Joran Mormont, Grandmother," Margarey said flatly, "his reputation is, intimidating to say the least, but reputation doesn't get a man upon the Throne. And, just as I told Littlefinger when he asked me, I want to be _the_ Queen."

Smiling sadly, Olenna nodded saying, "I thought so. A rose couldn't survive in the North anyway my dear, too much dangerous animals roam up there to be trusted."

After that, the two women bid each other good night from their dinner, and wishing her father and brother well before they left at the head of forty thousand men, Margarey went to bed, wondering if she had been right to choose what her family wanted.

…

Doran Martell

Smiling as the children played out in the Water Gardens, Doran, Prince of Sunspear and the Ruler of Dorne, had more than just the sight of children at play to make him happy.

Earlier that day, the Prince of Sunspear had been given word from his bodyguard Areo Hotah, that the progression of the War of Five Kings had taken a very unexpected turn for the Lannisters.

Tywin Lannister, the ruthless head of House Lannister, had been beaten by a bannerman of Robb Stark's army, and his mad dog, the Mountain Gregor Clegane had been slain by that same bannerman.

Elia's murderer had met his end, and the one who had sanctioned said murder, was in chains, humiliated by one man.

That man, Doran had come to know as, Joran Mormont or more commonly, Blood Bear.

"Brother," came the voice of Oberyn Martell came up from behind him.

Not bothering to turn around, Doran awaited his younger brother to approach him, after hearing what sounded like a pat upon the shoulder between the Red Viper and the axe man from Norvos.

When Oberyn came into view, Doran was pleased to see a smile upon his brother's face that wasn't the lustful one that he was familiar with when the Red Viper spoke about women and pleasure, but one of genuine happiness.

"Have you heard the wonderful news?" Oberyn asked with much enthusiasm.

Nodding, Doran answered, "I have Oberyn, and it is news that brings closure to my heart, that has felt a bad ache ever since the evil that occurred in King's Landing those years ago."

"And now, those responsible for such cruelties have been punished," Oberyn said, producing a piece of parchment that had become wrinkled in his fist, "Amory Lorch, was burnt to a crisp upon the field of battle against the northerners and Gregor Clegane has met his end at the blade of Blood Bear."

Nodding, Doran had already known of the events, but seeing Oberyn happier than he had been in years, the Prince allowed his brother to continue.

"Tywin Lannister rots in a prison under Riverrun," Oberyn went on, his smile growing with excitement growing in his eyes that Doran had definitely seen before, "I believe now it is time for us to join this War of Five Kings, brother. Time to make alliances with much disserving friends and a hero that even I could look up to."

Shaking his head adamantly, Doran brought up a point that his brother failed to see, "even with the victories gained by the Young Wolf and Blood Bear brother, their forces aren't enough to bring much hope to them winning this war. For even now, Stannis Baratheon has set sail for the Blackwater, and the Tyrells have secretly moved a force of forty thousand to the aid of King's Landing, planning to aid the Iron Throne the only way they know how. With men and food. To join now, wouldn't be ideal or within our best interests."

"You would turn your back upon a worthy ally brother," Oberyn said in surprise, his eyebrows shooting up his tan forehead, "a man who has given us vengeance and closure that we have been thirsting for years trying to achieve. I know he did not help us directly, but he has helped us deliver Ellia's murderers to justice nonetheless. Surely there is something we could do to tip the scale in Joran's favor?"

Bringing a hand to his chin, Doran thought on it a moment.

It was risky, for though the Crownlands didn't have enough force to be threatening, with the backing of the Reach, there would be no reason for them to try when they had flowers to do it for them.

If Stannis were to put a sizeable dent into their forces however before Doran declared for any side, then there could be a chance for when the northerners were to march upon the capitol.

But, were they to attempt to, they would have less than what they had passed the Neck with, after the little charade that Robb Stark has put himself into with the Freys, the Starks have lost men. Not to mention the fact that the Riverlands that are allied to the King in the North are almost depleted themselves in manpower, considering what had been given to take on Tywin with what remained of his own full force. It was quite the gamble.

If, somehow the northerners were to bring some kind of advantage to the game, the Prince of Sunspear could consider an alliance.

So, in order to have enough time to think the matter over, as well as to see what was to come from the fast approaching events, Doran said to Oberyn, "we will not join the war as of yet brother. But, I personally believe that we owe Blood Bear a debt, one that we must pay with our own blood in honor of our sister, Ellia. I shall send word north to Riverrun, and offer up an alliance with Joran Mormont, in a way to settle our debt. Once his answer returns for his acceptance of our aid, we shall discuss what he wishes for us to do."

"I shall take this message to him brother," Oberyn said, clapping his fist to his heart, "allow me to ride north and present the message you have for Joran. I will discuss with him how best we could aid him and his lord in the coming months. And I shall return with his answer and instructions if the answer is yes."

"Go with my blessing brother," Doran said with a smile before taking his brother's hand in his own, "and may our offer be accepted, so that we may be able to show the Lannisters that they are not the only ones who pay their debts."

Without another word, Oberyn left Doran in the Water Gardens to make ready to leave.

As Oberyn left, Doran began to wonder if Joran was betrothed. If he wasn't, then perhaps he could broach the subject with Arianne, to see what her thoughts were on the matter that concerned the Mormont.

…

Jorah Mormont

Gripping the news so tightly in his hand that the paper began to grow wet from his sweating in the heat, Jorah Mormont raced to his Khaleesi's room in Qarth to bring her tidings of great joy.

They had already received word from the Qarthinians that the War of Five Kings was setting a blaze in the west that Daenerys was delighted to hear of. He had seen the brightest light in her eyes upon hearing that Robert Baratheon was dead and that all of those loyal to him were at each other's throats, and had been for many months, almost a year hence. And Jorah wanted to bring the news that would make her just as happy.

Ever since arriving in Qarth, Jorah had sternly advised caution to his Khaleesi. Stating plainly that the people of Qarth were not to be trusted, even though one of the Thirteen of Qarth, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, had allowed them in, it was always one giant game or another that they were playing in the oasis city. And Jorah despised said game.

Having argued with Daenerys repeatedly over the course of their stay with the man who fancied himself the _King of Qarth,_ Jorah had begun to grow rather distant in the eyes of his Queen, she continuously pushing him away whenever he attempted to give her the council that they should leave while they could.

But, no. In Daenerys's mind, she had to use the time of their stay to full fruition, to try and gain allies in the east while she could. As of late however, there were few among the Qarth who would even bother with her.

And with such odds against her, Jorah had found Daenerys at her ropes end and had wanted to bring her comfort in the trying times ahead.

That very comfort, was in his hand.

Although it was meant to comfort Daenerys, it had been delivered to Jorah by one of Varys's birds, and after reading it, he couldn't believe it.

Joran, now being called Blood Bear, had defeated Tywin Lannister near the Gold Road and had killed Gregor Clegane in the process.

His cousin, the young man that Jorah had helped raise before his untimely departure from Bear Island, had defeated two of the most terrifying figures in Westeros, in one battle.

Upon realizing what the message was meant for, Jorah had to remember to thank the Spider if he ever saw him in the future for such wonderful news.

For months, Jorah had been without any word as to the state of his family and the goings on in the Seven Kingdoms, and after the letter had come to him, he had almost leapt for joy that he had been given something.

But the news, it was more than Jorah could ever have expected from his cousin, and it made him proud of Joran for what he had accomplished on his own.

Afterwards, taking a moment to collect himself, Jorah had made straight for the palace of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, to inform Daenerys of the recent events.

Having arrived, Jorah made his way up stairs and through hallways to where Daenerys's quarters were.

Approaching the door, before he could knock, Jorah found it open ajar and, a sound coming from within the room.

It was humming.

Looking into the crack, Jorah saw Daenerys dressed in a robe that revealed little of her body, at a vanity mirror, combing her silver hair and humming to herself a tune that he was not familiar with.

In that moment, Jorah was reminded of how beautiful the young woman was, and how much he secretly cared for her.

Sadly, though, as fast as the thought came, it was kicked off by the fact that Daenerys couldn't see him the same way.

Returning his attention to the present and to his Queen, Jorah listened on as Daenerys continued humming.

The tone of the song, sounded rather epic, as though it belonged to a fairy tale. Solemn, like the music song for lost comrades at an inn by drunk survivors of a war. And it had a crescendo that would have been worthy of the retelling of a mighty feet.

Jorah then realized something.

Opening up the now crumpled letter in his hand, Jorah read over a passage of it that Varys had put in, concerning Joran's fame.

 _They have even given him a song; it is called-._

" _The Bear who toppled a Mountain,"_ Jorah whispered to himself quietly sot that Daenerys didn't hear.

Jorah could feel his heart weep somewhat at what it could mean if his khaleesi already knew of his cousin from Xaro, and what she could be feeling at that very moment, humming that song about Joran and his fight with the Mountain.

Rolling up the letter, Jorah stuffed the paper into his pocket and moving away from the door, began to ponder the affect that Joran's success was having on Daenerys Targaryen.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12: Secrets and Revelations

 **Hello and welcome back my avid fanfiction readers. I am loving the reviews, just loving them, the motivation I get from you guys and gals reading my story just seeps through my mind for ideas and out onto the pages. Now, I am glad that many reviewers enjoyed the interlude chapter. It was kind of hard trying to figure out how well Joran would stand out in the many minds of the Southron populace of notable characters. The hardest part was to actually try and sell each individual person and their opinions on the man himself. But hey, they weren't pretty, but they were manageable and again, thanks for the reviews. Now, enjoy this chapter and I hope that you guys get back to me with reviews as fast as I can come up with these chapters. NOTE: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, all people, places, and things pertaining to these works belong only to George RR Martin**

Tywin

Sitting in the cell he shared with his son Jaimie, under the fortifications of Riverrun, Tywin Lannister sat cross legged in chains to the wall adjacent to his son.

Haggard and unshaven, the Old Lion could only sit and stare at the floor of his cell as he pondered of how it could have been possible for him to have come here.

At first, it had been denial. Sure, it was easy for everyone else to accept that he had been defeated. Everyone else was outside and allowed to walk freely under clear skies. Whereas he, was forced to rot under a fortress, next to a river, that occasionally splashed into the cell whenever it rained. And, during the time of Tywin's stay, it had rained many times, the water flowing in soaking a worse for wear Jaimie, and his father as well.

Then, it had been simply remembering how this all had happened. For weeks prior to the contest, Tywin had attempted to raid across the Riverlands, only for scouting cavalry to foil his means of feeding his troops over and over. Then, after the first few attempts, and after losing nearly two thousand men in the process, he had given up, and he with his army had been forced to eat, horses, dogs, cats, and rats, before the Old Lion had been fed up with it all.

When the time came for the contest, Tywin had imagined only coming across the scouting parties, trying to destroy him as they had done to his own raiding parties so many times before. He had believed Blood Bear as naïve as the Stark boy when he had spotted the fifteen hundred horsemen. Tywin had believed that it would become no more than a skirmish.

Only, it had been a trap, one that he had walked into so willingly.

The battle raged, and before he had known it, he was thrown from his horse and caught by the Blackfish of all people.

And now, Tywin was here, in a wet cell, with a wet cellmate, cold, hungry, and of course, soaked.

Now, Tywin began to accept his fate, since there was no opportunity he could use to force his way free. He was weak, his son Jaimie was week, they had no weapons, and worst of all, they were guarded closely every hour of everyday.

All in all, escape was hopeless, and slowly, in his silence, Tywin began to creep into a silent state that even the Stranger would marvel at.

But then, there came footsteps down the corridor of his prison, and they drew ever closer to where his cell was.

They stopped right outside of his door, and Tywin could hear the voice of a woman on the other side of it.

The door opened, and in stepped two figures, one whom Tywin had never thought to see, and another that he couldn't believe could exist.

Catelyn Stark, dressed in grey and blue, stood before him with a stern look to her face, and behind her, stood a behemoth that made even the Hound look normal.

Blinking twice, to try and discern if this was just a dream, the Old Lion came to realize that it wasn't.

"Lady Stark," Tywin said, his voice waking Jaimie up from his own wet slumber with a startle that rattled his chains, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit."

"You know full well what you owe," Catelyn said angrily, "you and your family owe mine for the insults and betrayals your children have brought upon my House's."

"Heh," Tywin Lannister, a man feared for his vicious reprisals in the form of murder and deceit, was asked to repay a debt owed to his enemies, "if you wish for an apology, you won't find one here Lady Stark, especially considering how it was you who started this whole mess in the first place."

"I did what I had to, because of the crime of your son and daughter to attempt to kill my child in my home." Telling Catelyn was furious, Tywin allowed her to continue, "not to mention what your son and daughter have done, against the gods and to the realm itself. Placing an illegitimate child upon the throne and calling him King. Bringing about a mess-."

"That your husband lost his head for," Tywin asked blatantly, having grown tired of the ramblings of the woman, and almost preferring the silence, "the crimes of my son and daughter are not for you to judge. They are for I and I alone. And if you wish to call them crimes, you should look into your history and recall that the Targaryens did much of the same thing, though it wasn't approved of by the public, they did it anyway. And as for the ill fate of your young son, he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time in my opinion."

Tywin heard the spit before he felt it hit him in the face, due to the dampness of his sell and the water that poured in randomly, he didn't remember the last time he was dry enough to feel a woman spit on him before.

"You would ignore the crimes of your blood if it meant power, Tywin," Catelyn said angrily, "but I shall not ignore them. And I demand compensation for them, and for this all to end with it."

"End," Tywin asked, wiping a hand across his face to remove the glob that the Tully girl had projected onto him, "I think that it is too far in to end, Lady Stark, and I highly doubt that anything that I do or you do will change the mind of your son when it comes as to how far he will go."

"That is why I am here," Catelyn said, her voice becoming level, "I propose, a trade between our forces. One that is fare beyond the point of reasoning."

Looking up at her with a cocked eyebrow, Tywin said, "go on."

"Your son's freedom, for my daughter Sansa," Catelyn said in earnest, "the moment I have my daughter back will be the moment my son withdraws his armies from your lands entirely. And the moment your son is free, he shall bring the final terms of the secession of The North and Riverlands to your grandson, if Joffrey excepts them, we will end all hostilities and live in peace as an independent kingdom. If he refuses, only the Gods will be the only ones willing to help you for what will come after."

Chuckling to himself, Tywin kept staring at Catelyn before saying, "you truly think that your son will allow one prisoner out of this cell, you are sorely mistaken. However, he wouldn't need to know of the deal, if it never left this room."

"You actually believe that I would betray my son's trust to let yours free," Catelyn said in disbelief.

"For your daughter, I would imagine you would do whatever was necessary to get her home," Tywin said, adding, "what was your House's words, _Family, Duty, Honor?_ "

Looking to be seething with anger, Catelyn Stark turned to remove herself from the cell, before Tywin called after her, "if you find that my words ring true from your son's mouth, you know where to find me if you change your mind."

(Note: after the departure of the Freys, Robb is forced to realize that he can't get his last sister back without them, for King's Landing, however weakened from the Blackwater, was regarrisoned enough with Tyrell men to withstand anything that he was to throw at them. When his mother suggests a trade for Sansa, he refuses, stating that his sister wasn't worth a country, and he needed to keep face with his bannermen more than ever now that he has been weakened by his choices. Joran chastises him about loyalty to his family, and remarking that that was the difference between them. After that, Joran keeps an eye on Brienne, only to find her attempting to release Jaimie.)

…

Joran

Looking over his axe, reinforced haft and all, Joran was impressed at the craftsmanship of the young blacksmith before him.

"It looks better than the first day I had it made," Joran told Gendry, who stood with his hands behind his back in respect for the Lord before him, "well done Gendry. You surprise even me with a talent that I've only seen in castle smiths."

"Thank you, milord," Gendry said, unable to hold back the smile that sprouted from his face.

One of many few that Joran had seen for days on anyone.

It had been a week and a day since the three thousand soldiers and one thousand cavalrymen had returned to Riverrun. Upon their return, Joran and his men had been met with a shocked return welcome. When they had entered the fortifications, Blood Bear had allowed the common conscripts of his forces that had survived to break rank and return to their families. Those families who did not see their sons, brothers, and husbands among the rabble, had each approached the survivors, and upon their answering, Joran had listened to the wails of widows, sisters, and mothers for the entirety of the way towards the main castle of the Riverland Capitol.

All of them had shocked Joran to the bone.

When he had presented his prizes to Catelyn, who was joyful to finally have her Arya back with her again after the passing of her father, and Edmure, a shocked man who had told Joran that he hadn't expected his return, their faces had been the only ones to seem happy enough to look at him, with no trace of loss upon them.

After a brief discussion, and an even briefer celebration on his part, Joran had confined himself to his room, with a bottle of wine and the memory of the saddened people to keep him company.

For three days, Joran had remained in his quarters, the only visitors he took was Jarak the Heavy and Brynden Blackfish, reporting to him the latest Battle of Blackwater, and asking him what he wanted done now that the Reach had declared for Joffrey.

"Send out the scouting parties again," Joran had told them, looking out his window into the pail daylight, his long hair uncombed and his beard wild from lack of care, "instead of five hundred men, make it three hundred men per party. Scout the border of the Reach, make sure they don't mean to surprise us with an attack."

After that brief talk, Joran had been left alone until the next day.

When Brynden had returned alone, to chastise Joran for what was going on with him.

"Goddamn it Joran," he had said, "you've been in your room for days now. The men need you outside, commanding them, _leading them,_ for Gods' sake."

"Those men don't disserve a leader who will send thousands to their death for a victory over one man," Joran had said.

"No, they don't," Brynden had said, "they disserve a leader who _cares,_ a leader they are willing to follow because of the fact he takes into consideration all of them, not just the ones with title and class. You know what happened to me the other day?"

Joran hadn't even bothered to answer.

"A thousand men, not from the north, not even from a nobleman's house, had all come before me, and had asked how you _fared,_ Joran, _common men._ A few of them even broached the question to me as to how they could join your Oath Bound, Riverlanders Joran, wanting to be a part of the Blood Bear's band of famous warriors. I couldn't answer a single one of them, because I wasn't you Joran."

Looking at the bottle of wine in his hand, Joran couldn't believe what he had heard, men willing to follow him, after so many of their friends had been lost due to his orders.

"When you are done moping around like a little girl, Joran," Brynden said after a pause, "come to dinner and see to the further defense of your post."

When he had left, shutting the door behind him, Joran had sat there, alone, thinking what could have possibly brought those men about, wanting to join him and his Oath Bound.

After another hour, Joran had finally grown out of the rut he was in and tired of sitting in his room, he broke the wine bottle he had kept with him for days against a wall, he left his room, and joined Brynden for dinner.

On the fourth day, at the head of the thousand men that had wanted to join his remaining one hundred Oath Bound, Joran had agreed to give all of them, and their families a place with him in his service, and had been about learning each of their names for the rest of the day.

Upon the fifth day, Joran had commissioned Gendry to refit his axe head upon a reinforced haft.

And now, four days later, here it was, the axe that Joran had faced the Mountain with, good as new.

"Gendry," Joran said, returning to the present and what he had wished to broach the boy about.

"Yes, Milord?"

It had only been yesterday when Brynden had broached the subject with Joran, about Gendry's parentage.

 _There's something about the boy Joran,_ the Blackfish had said to him, _if I didn't know any better, I would say that Robert Baratheon in his youth was standing before us, dressed as an urchin._

Joran had asked Brynden how he could know, with the older man reminding him that he had seen Robert many times during his rebellion and the Blackfish never forgot a face, and the resmblance was there on the boy before him.

"Tell me," Joran went on, "did you know your parents?"

"Only my mother, Milord," Gendry said, his expression changing from a happy one to one of sadness before Joran's eyes, "but, she died when I was little."

"And, your father?"

"Never knew him, Milord," Gendry said with a quick shake of his head.

"Did anyone try to, ask you about him before," Joran asked.

"Only the Hands to the King Robert, before they died, Milord," Gendry answered, "the Lord Jon Arryn and the Lord Eddard Stark."

"Ah," Joran couldn't believe it, Eddard Stark had known about this boy during his investigation, and that was how he had known, that Joffrey was illegitimate, "that must have been a real honor, meeting the two of them."

"It was, Milord," Gendry said, perking up, "more than someone like me could ever disserve at the time."

"Gendry," Joran said, stopping the boy, "what if I told you…that, I had a good idea, who your father was?"

Not answering for quite a minute, Gendry looked to be thinking if he really wanted to know.

"From you Milord," Gendry said, with a quick nod, "I would be honored to know."

Feeling his gut drop, Joran thought of if this was the right time and place to tell the boy. They were so far from any enemy, but, Blood Bear always had the feeling that the Southern lands of Westeros were filled with ears everywhere.

Looking around briefly behind him in the Riverrun courtyard, Joran inspected his surroundings to be sure that there weren't any unwanted eyes looking at him and Gendry.

Returning his gaze to Gendry, Joran decided that, the boy had a right to know and said, "Gendry, your father, was Robert of the House Baratheon, the late King."

Gendry, his face a light with shock, half turned away from Joran and bent himself over his anvil for support.

"I should've figured as much," Gendry said, avoiding Joran's gaze, "why the Gold Cloaks were after me. They had been looking for me so they could kill me, because of who my father was, because he had chosen my mother. I should've figured I was a bastard, born of a whoremonger."

Gently placing a hand upon Gendry's shoulder, bringing the boy to look at him, Joran spoke, "I know, that he wasn't a good man for someone to call father. But believe me Gendry, he hadn't always been thus. And, trust me, it is better to think of the man that he had been, compared to what he was at the time he passed on."

"It doesn't matter now then, does it," Gendry said, Joran could tell the boy was holding back tears, "he's dead, and with any luck, I will be too when Joffrey's spies find me."

"Not if I can help it Gendry," Joran said firmly, "which is another thing that I meant to bring with me today, besides praise and revelations. A proposition, to serve as my Blacksmith until the war is over, and later, as my Ward, once we are in the north, no one will look for you there or attempt to harm you."

"Wouldn't it bring dishonor to your house to harbor a fugitive of the Crown, not to mention to Ward a bastard," Gendry asked.

"Not if we win this war, Gendry," Joran said with a small smile through his beard, "and not if the bastard was someone like you, a craftsman worth his trade and a man who I know would bring honor to his heritage, although his heritage wouldn't want anything to do with him."

Then, in a sudden movement, Gendry, his head bowed, was on one knee before Joran.

"I don't know what to say Milord," Gendry said, apparently shocked by Joran's proposal, "I don't know if I am worthy of such an offer from, someone like you."

Grabbing Gendry by his shoulders and lifting him up off the ground, Joran squeezed the lad's shoulders in an assuring manner as he spoke, "Gendry, for one thing, you can say yes, and it will be only you who decides if you are worthy of the chances given to you by life."

Nodding, allowing a single tear to escape his eyes, Gendry said, "it will be an honor to serve you Milord, and I will do my best to make you proud."

"And it will be an honor to have you my boy," Joran said, extending a hand out to Gendry Storm.

The younger man took it, and they shook on their deal.

"Now," Joran said, releasing the boy's hand, "how much to I owe you for your work?"

"No, Milord, for you, free of charge," Gendry said, quickly wiping away any remnants of a tear from his face.

"As nice as that would be," Joran said with a smile, "I cannot leave a man who's done such find work without paying him. Now how much?"

"You've already done more for me than I could ask for in payment, Milord," Gendry said, returning the smile.

Before Joran could argue further, he turned to the sound of hoof beats behind him.

Finding a scout riding towards him and Gendry, Joran watched as the man came to a stop before them both and hopping from his horse, spoke quietly in Joran's ear a message for him and him alone.

"Well done," Joran said grimly, "go grab yourself something to eat and rest for now."

"What is it, Milord?" Gendry asked, as the scout moved away.

"It would seem that our King, is returning to Riverrun," Joran said, beginning to step away from the Blacksmith with his axe in hand back to the castle, "and it would appear that he doesn't ride alone."

…

Standing in the Main Hall of Riverrun, his beard and head of hair combed to some semblance of civility, Joran, leaning on his axe Northguard in the cleanest clothes that he had, next to Brynden, Catelyn, Arya, and Edmure to his left, dressed better than he was, waited to receive Robb Stark, the King in the North, after his long campaign in the Westerlands.

But, from what the messenger had said to him that morning, Joran knew that the Young Wolf wasn't returning alone, but with a wife.

One that wasn't a Frey.

And also, from what the man had told Joran, Robb's army was lacking Frey banners in their ranks, which would indicate that they had gone home the moment they learned of the betrayal.

The news hadn't sat well with Joran, and in due time, he would broach the subject with Robb the moment the chance arose.

Before he could go on thinking of how to get the Young Wolf alone long enough to actually talk to him though, Joran's thoughts were interrupted by one of the guards entering to announce the arrival of Robb Stark, and his queen.

As they walked in, the first thing that Joran saw was Robb, now looking the part of a man with his facial hair growing well in check upon his face and weathered from his time in the west, walking hand in hand with a woman that was indeed beautiful, followed by his bannermen and personal guard, his sister Dacey among them. There were others as well, people Blood Bear hadn't recognized following his King.

When the procession came to a stop before those that had defended Riverrun while their King was away, Joran felt the silence in the room drawing out too long for comfort.

"Robb," Catelyn, the first to break the silence, approached her son, regardless of the fact that his bannermen were watching and embraced him the only way a mother could to her child.

"Mother," Robb said, receiving the hug without much complaint.

When she released him, Robb looked over to the woman next to him and introduced her to his mother, "this is Jeyne Westerling, my wife."

 _So, it is true,_ Joran thought, having hoped that his scout's words had been exaggerated somewhere down the line.

They hadn't been in the slightest.

"Welcome my dear," Catelyn said warmly to the girl, embracing her as though she were her daughter behind her, "I had heard that my son had married, but, I never would have thought his bride to be as beautiful as you are."

"It is much appreciated, my Lady," Jeyne said with a slight curtsy.

"Arya," Robb said, looking past his mother to where his sister stood in her dress.

In that moment, Arya Stark ran up to her brother, and embraced him at the hips so tightly, Joran would have thought that his King was about to lose his legs.

"How," Robb began, after Arya released him, kneeling down to eyelevel with her. "How did you come here, I thought you were in King's Landing."

"I got away, thanks to a Man of the Nights Watch," Arya said, recounting her tale before all of those present, much to their shock and amazement, until finally explaining how Joran had found her and her companions after the Battle near the Gold Road.

Looking away from his sister, Robb looked over to Joran and said, "I see that, I have two things to thank you for Lord Mormont. For the defeat of our greatest enemy and the finding of my sister. It would seem that luck has graced us since I've been away."

Joran didn't speak, all he could do was nod to his King, wanting the first words he spoke to be to his sister, who even now, looked upon him with a smile of her own.

"This is a time for celebration," Robb went on, "tonight, we will eat and drink in honor of the return of my sister Arya, and rest our bones awhile before we move forward in our plans."

All the northern lords, from the Karstark to Greatjon and Glover, all gave a huzza to the news.

As the congregation broke to greet the defenders of Riverrun, Joran moved towards his sister Dacey, who in turn, made her way towards him.

When she was close enough, Joran grabbed Dacey by her lanky chainmail arm and, careful of his axe, pulled her into a bear hug that only a Mormont knew how to give.

"Thank the Gods," Joran said into his sister's shoulder as she returned the hug, "it is so good to finally see you again sister."

"The feeling is mutual brother," Dacey said, Joran telling that he was suffocating her by her voice, and releasing her, looked her up and down to check and see if she was unharmed.

"I trust the west was, good to you dear sister," Joran said, happy that he found nothing wrong with his sister.

"Surprisingly so, brother," Dacey said with a nod, "we found it welcoming as warm fire after a cold day. And we rode through it like a scythe through wheat."

"I heard," Joran said, planting his axe before him and leaning on it, "it seems that Robb hasn't lost a battle yet."

"And it seems that you haven't either," Dacey remarked, seeing the new axe haft of her brother's weapon before continuing, "it would also seem that you've made quite the name for yourself since we've been away."

"Well, I had to show Tywin that Mormont's aren't so easily moved by overwhelming numbers," Joran said, feeling the eyes in the room looking at him even though he didn't bother to see them, "now, he rots in a cell below us, and the Mountain is no more because of what we were taught from our words."

" _Here We Stand,"_ Dacey said, her smile widening with pride for her younger brother, "you stood well it seems against a lion who nobody would trifle with."

"Aye, but be assured I didn't stand alone," Joran said, turning and pointing to Brynden as he spoke to the Greatjon across the way, "the Blackfish has been a great help in rallying the Riverlords to my side."

"I bet," Dacey said, before her face began to darken, "it is a shame not all of our friends are like him."

"What do you mean," Joran asked.

"Theon," Dacey said, her voice growing dark at the mention of his name, "he betrayed us brother, just like you knew he would, and the Ironborn are wreaking havoc upon the Westerlands as we speak. Who knows when they will head north to attempt to attack while we're all gone."

"About that," Joran said, scratching his beard casually, undisturbed by the news, "I kind of set up a certain safeguard in case I was right. I sent Garratt north after you left to raise the defenses for The North. He's stationed men at Moat Cailin to guard our rear, he's raised Bear Island and Deepwood Motte, who have no doubt placed scouts and warriors upon the Stony Shore to hold back any Ironborn that come that way. As for Garratt himself, he is at Winterfell, keeping an eye on things for me."

Surprise and shock crossed over his sisters face as though she had taken a blow from the mace at her hip, "how, why didn't you tell Robb of your intentions, why didn't you tell me?"

Removing his hand from his beard, Joran answered her simply, "if I had told Robb, he would have commanded me to return the men I sent, believing blindly that Theon could be trusted, and if I had told you at the time, you would have told him and the same would have come about."

Huffing, in what seemed like a brief fit of anger, Dacey placed her hands on her hips and shaking her head said, "you could have at least suggested the plan to me before going behind Robb's back."

"I found it necessary to do so Dacey," Joran said in his defense, "you and I both know what the Ironborn are capable of when no one is there to stand against them. They are a terror that, if left unchecked, would rob from us everything that we have. But now, thanks to my man Garratt, we won't have to worry about our homes being taken from us from Ironborn Reavers."

"Well," Dacey said uncertain, "it is a weight from my mind, but I still think you should've told me at the very least."

"Next time," Joran said in earnest, "whenever I plan on doing something like this again, you will be the first person I tell."

"Promise," Dacey asked, childishly.

"Promise," Joran answered.

"Fine, I forgive you," Dacey said, her tone returning to some normality, "but I won't forgive you for almost getting yourself killed going up against the Mountain."

"I seek no forgiveness where I didn't for permission," Joran spoke as though he had every reason to do what he did, "the Lannisters were starving, they were trying to get away, and I stopped them, simple as that."

"And you almost died because of it," Dacey said, becoming angry at her brother.

"Almost," Joran admitted, "but, as our King has said, luck is on our side."

"Luck never lasts forever," Dacey said, her anger subsiding slightly.

"Speaking of luck," Joran said, looking over to Jeyne Westerling who standing next to Robb, was speaking to Edmure, "how on earth did the Young Wolf come to be married to that girl when he was already promised to a Frey girl?"

"Let's just say that, in war, men forget vows for a brief night of passion," Dacey said, following Joran's gaze, "but, in the case of our King, it was a little different."

"How so," Joran asked, keeping his eyes upon the royal couple.

"He was wounded in a battle," Dacey began to explain, "Jeyne there, talented in the art of healing and medicine, treated him for a time. Robb ended up becoming infatuated with her the moment he first saw her. After he was all healed and better, he spent some time with her, more time than I thought was necessary for a fancy that should have ended a little after it had begun.

"After weeks of them talking, Robb ended up taking her, giving in to his wolf blood it would seem," Dacey said, rather sadly to Joran, "when he had realized what he had done, to save her honor and the love he bore her, Robb married her, and that is when we received our new queen."

"And I take it the Freys didn't like it," Joran said, remembering the fact that there was no Frey man present.

"They did not," Dacey said honestly, "the four thousand Frey men we had, left after hearing of the marriage, calling our King an oathbreaker as they rode away."

"Who could blame them," Joran said, expecting a swat upon the shoulder from his sister, when she didn't do it though, he found that she thought likewise.

"Aye, who can," Dacey sighed.

"How many men do you all still have after the Frey's left," Joran asked, curious as to how many men they had.

"Fifteen thousand now," Dacey answered, "the majority of our forces being Karstark and Glover men at the moment, and word has it that Roose has another thousand on the other side of the Twins. So, sixteen thousand in total, not counting the Riverlanders we have here."

"Well," Joran said, remembering the counts for the numbers he had now after his battle with Tywin, "I have one thousand horsemen, and then there's the three thousand I returned with after the Gold Road, and the two thousand I had left to defend Riverrun. I'd estimate, six thousand are left under my command now."

"So that make our numbers out to be twenty-two thousand at best," Dacey said, "it still isn't enough to besiege the capitol, which Robb has been considering on doing even before Tywin Lannister was dealt with, especially now after the Battle of the Blackwater, with the Tyrell's and their fifty thousand soldiers backing the crown."

"I thought it was forty thousand," Joran said in disbelief to what he was hearing.

"It was until Randyll Tarly happened," Dacey said with a growl, "the man has been conscripting soldiers ever since Mace Tyrell left the Reach to fight Stannis, we'll be lucky if he's even slowed his progress down even a little."

So, that was the game the Reachers were playing.

Quite a good one in Joran's opinion. They had the money, they had the supplies, and they had the numbers to keep building their war machine to bursting. And with a military mind like Randyll Tarly's, the war machine would be even more deadlier than the Lannister one.

There had to be a way to turn their own numbers against them, and Joran would have to think of a way how to do it.

"Eh," Joran said with a wave of his hand, "let's not talk of what could happen in the coming months, and let's focus on the here and now sister."

Grateful to leave the subject, Dacey nodded and said, "I would like that very much brother."

"So, tell me," Joran said, changing the subject to one that he knew his sister would feel uncomfortable about, "how fares the Smalljon?"

Taken aback by what the conversation was moving towards, Dacey asked in answer to her brother's question, "what do you mean?"

"Well," Joran went on, trying not to sound too obvious, "considering the fact that you two have gotten to know each other over the last month and a half, I would assume that you two are good friends at this point."

That's when the slap to Joran's shoulder came.

"I know that you asked the Smalljon to keep an eye on me, little brother," Dacey said, with a hint of anger to her voice that Joran hadn't noticed before, "and like I always tell you, it is unnecessary."

"Well, I'm sorry for caring," Joran said sheepishly, "but, I've heard quite the rumors about you both from a few of your soldiers I've seen. How the two of you make the battlefield look like a canvas of art, and when the day is over how you prefer each other's company over anyone else's."

"How…" Dacey began, before a blush came to her face and lowering her voice warned Joran "don't you dare breath a word to mother about this in any of your letters brother. If you do I will never forgive you, and you'll have to worry about my mace before you worry about flowers with swords in their hands."

"Don't worry," Joran said with a mischievous smile, "your secret will be safe with me. And forget I even said anything, the Smalljon seems to be a good match for you, and if he makes you happy, then I'll be happy. So don't let my joking get you discouraged sister."

After that, the two were interrupted by the Greatjon and his booming voice, who embraced Joran in a bear hug that he was surprised could come from anyone else from him.

…

The rest of that day was spent in merriment. Tales were told, there was much drinking, singing, and joking that Joran hadn't heard since his celebrated victory a week prior. And, he was happy to see many of his friends and colleagues seated together to celebrate the course of the Battle for their independence.

But, the next morning was one where all happiness was gone, and there was only to be the grim talk of war.

Within the Main Hall, a council of war was being held by the northern lords and the Riverlords as to the next course of action they should take.

"With the Reach backing the Iron Throne," Greatjon spoke in his booming voice, "we'll be hard pressed to reach King's Landing, let alone lay siege to it."

"Aye," Glover spoke up, "and with Randyll Tarly at work, men are gathering in the Reach like flies to horse dung."

The lords present laughed at the jape, but Joran remained steadfast as he spoke next, "it is not a simple thing to ignore the fact that Tarly is gathering another army for his lord Mace. If it continues, we'll be standing against an army that outnumbers us three to one within months if not weeks. We must find a way to halt the expansion of our enemy's forces, and quickly if we are to succeed in our fight."

"Aye," all the majority said in agreement.

"But, how do you suppose we go about it then," Karstark spoke up, his great beard looking as unkempt as usual, "march on the Reach with what we have before King's Landing?"

"No," Joran said firmly, "I propose we do something else. What does an army need to keep itself going?"

"Food," came the voice of Galbart Glover from Joran's right.

"Exactly," Joran said, pointing a finger to Glover as though he had just completed a study without fail, "the moment the Tyrells lose their supply lines to, mishaps that we can give them, is the moment they lose whatever momentum they have with their forces. It isn't a secret though, that the Reach is also trying to feed King's Landing, now that the rose is in bed with the Boy King there. So, by taking away the means to feed their army and the capitol, we will end up forcing a noose around their necks that they can't get out of. With any luck, Joffrey will choose his army over his people, and when the people starve, riots will happen that will work more to our favor than to the Reach's."

All around him, lords nodded to the sense of the plan.

"Yet," King Robb broke in, "how can we be sure that we can delay these supply lines, the moment any large number of our forces set forth, Tarly will catch them and destroy them before they have a chance to do any real harm."

Very soon, arguing broke out. The majority of the northern lords, save for the Greatjon, began to see the sense in Robb's statement, while the Riverlords, having fought with Joran before, found sense in what he was trying to do, which was starve the enemy out before they were destroyed. It was chaos in the main hall.

Until Lady Catelyn, only an onlooker up to this point, stood up and called all to her attention.

"My Lords," Catelyn said, once all the men in the room were quieted down, "there is a way that we could end, this bloodshed, once and for all. We could propose a trade."

"Trade?" all the lords in the room murmured to one another.

"Yes," Catelyn said calmly, "trades that could go a long way without us having to do anything."

"Who would you propose we trade, my Lady," Joran asked, looking to Catelyn suspiciously.

"The Kingslayer, for Sansa," she said, shocking the lords in the room to murmuring amongst themselves, "and Tywin Lannister, for our independence."

What was quiet shock before, turned into an uproar of disagreements and protests.

"We can't just simply hand over two of our bartering chips now that we have the Lions by the tale, Cat," Greatjon said, shaking his head to his own thoughts on it.

"Aye," Glover joined, "not to mention the fact the moment we start negotiating with the crown again, they'll only ask for more than one person to trade for a sister to a King."

"And who's to say that the moment the deals are done," Karstark roared out, "that the Boy King won't just spit on our agreement and go back on his word, bringing war upon us once our backs are turned for home!?"

The arguing lit up again and all participated.

Save for Joran and Robb.

Joran thought it a plausible way to go about it. They could barter a deal for Sansa in exchange for Jaimie at the most, but then again, Blood Bear always had a tender spot to family and many lords there weren't in the position that their King was in when it came to his. As for the trade for Tywin in return for a signed declaration that The North was independent, it was more than unlikely that the Iron Throne would release the largest of its lands to govern itself, for one man.

"We can't afford, to trade either of them," Robb's voice rang over all of the men there, bringing all to order, "not the Kingslayer, and not Tywin. The moment we do trade either of them, it will be an invitation for Joffrey to stab us in the back like he did my father."

"Robb," Catelyn said, almost pleading in Joran's eyes, "think of Sansa, think of how she is being treated by them now that we have two of their own in our custody."

"I do think of that mother," Robb said, the son of the woman gone and a king in his place, "and I also think of the weakness it will show if I do attempt such a trade as this. If we show weakness now, then Joffrey will exploit it and so will the Tyrells."

"You can't mean to not at least try and make a trade for Sansa," Catelyn said, her face aghast with what her son was saying.

"Now is not the time to attempt to get her back mother," Robb said, almost in a cold way, "as much as I would like to, I can't risk it when we have already come so far. I promise we'll get her back, just not now."

With that, Catelyn left the Main Hall of Riverrun with Brienne of Tarth hot on her tail.

"Let us continue my Lords," Robb said, retaking his seat.

Joran, sitting down himself, could not believe what his King had just said to his own mother. Mormont knew of what was at stake, but, Robb couldn't just write off his own sister so easily, considering where she was.

"Now, we need to take the fight to the Iron Throne," Robb said, clasping his hands in front of him as he spoke, "but, we don't have enough men to fight the Tyrells in the field, let alone attack their supply trains. So, I say we get the men as soon as possible."

"And, how do we do that," Joran asked, keeping his tone level with the Young Wolf.

"We barter another deal," Robb said, "with Walder Frey."

"Do you think he will be inclined to make another one with us your Grace," Brynden Tully spoke up, "I mean, he almost had the chance to wed his daughter to a King. I don't think that he'll be inclined for anything less than that."

"I highly doubt it will be possible," Edmure then said, following up with his uncle, "Walder Frey has no lack of pride, and you injured it your Grace, let there be no mistake. The only thing that'll persuade him to help us now, would be something that's been out of his grasp for years."

"And that's where you will be coming in, uncle," Robb said, his meaning obvious.

All the men in the room chuckled at what their King was implying, while Edmure began to run red in the face.

"You, mean to marry me, to one of his daughters," Edmure said, aghast at the very thought.

"It would be the obvious choice to make," Joran said nonchalantly, "after all, he has been after you for years now, a lot longer than he's been after Robb. We could give him the next best choice out of our alliance, which would be the Lord of Riverrun himself."

"I cannot believe that is even being suggested," Edmure said haughtily, "it is unthinkable. The last time he had tried to make a marriage proposal to me, the girl he had had in mind was missing teeth and had the complexion of a horse."

At that, the lords gathered began to laugh so loud, Joran could feel the table shake from the vibrations.

"Nevertheless, uncle," Robb said, quickly bringing the laughter to a hold, "we need this to happen. And to make it fair to you, I shall give you tonight to decide. I won't force you to wed, since it is against the law to do so, but I must ask that you do, for the sake of the future of our lands uncle, I pray that you accept.

"This meeting is adjourned until further notice."

With that, the lords began to rise and file out of the Main Hall, their business concluded for the day.

All of them accept Joran.

"A word your Grace," Joran said, standing beside the table.

"Yes, Lord Mormont," Robb asked, rising from his own seat and stepping away from his chair.

"I must ask, why not barter a deal for your sister?" Joran knew it wasn't his place to recommend such a thing, but, he couldn't leave without actually seeing if he could try to convince his King for Catelyn's sake.

"You know full well why," Robb said, attempting to end the matter then and there, "victory for The North comes first. The moment my bannermen see that I hold something as personal as my own sister above our homeland, they'd leave me to the enemy."

"I wouldn't," Joran said flatly, "this far, I have done as you asked. I have put my life in defense of the Riverlands while you were burning the Westerlands. I would have no right to leave you behind for you to be swallowed up by this pit of snakes."

"And that is what I admire about you Joran," Robb said, coming to stand before Joran and placing a hand on his shoulder as he spoke, "you are a loyal man. A good man that any man would be lucky to have on his side. But, you cannot feel so inclined to vouch for my mother's wishes, as noble as they are. Of the many things that we have in common, Joran, that is something we cannot share."

As Robb turned away from him, Joran could feel his blood boil at what he had just heard.

"That isn't the only thing that we do not see eye to eye on, your Grace," Joran called after Robb, who stopped in his tracks before the door out of the Main Hall to turn and listen to what his bannerman had to say, "another, is the fact that you put your own selfish desires, before the safety of your family. Between you and me, it would take more than just a woman to come between me and the safety of any of my sisters. I only hope that what comes from the choices you've made, doesn't rain down upon the rest of us."

After saying what he had needed to, Joran walked to the opposite end of the Main Hall, and exited on of the doors there.

…

Brienne

Making her way down the corridor, passing the many cells belonging to Lannister prisoners, Brienne of Tarth, under the orders of the Lady Catelyn, had a mind for only one cell.

Coming to the end of the long hall, the female knight could see the four Stark Guards there watching the cell she was looking for.

Upon her approach, the men looked at Brienne with queer looks, and one of them stepped forth to question her.

"Hold there, what's your business down here," the man said, while Brienne began to quicken her pace towards him, moving a hand to the dagger at her belt.

"I am here under orders from the Lady Catelyn," Brienne said, each word bringing her one step closer towards the man.

"For what reason would she give you orders to come down here," the man asked, Brienne one step away.

"For the prisoners," Brienne said, drawing her dagger and thrusting its blade up under the man's jaw and into his brain.

As the man crumpled to the floor and all the prisoners in the dungeon hooting and hollering, the other three guards drew their steel, while Brienne drew her own and the fallen man's blade to dual wield.

In the narrow hallway of the prison, the numbers of the men would count for nothing and Brienne would have little trouble in dealing with them.

A vicious fight broke out and it took Brienne minutes before the last man fell dead to the floor.

The raucous in the dungeons was too loud for Brienne's comfort, so she had to move fast before she was discovered.

Removing the keys from one of the guard's belt, Brienne sheathed her weapons and ran to the last cell of the prison. After a lengthy search for the right key, the Beauty put the correct one into the key hole and opened the cell.

Looking at both of the men within, Brienne almost felt sorry that she had to only take the one out instead of two.

Unlocking the cuffs of Jaimie's shackles, the knight tried her best to get him to rise, only to find that the Lannister was too weak to stand, let alone run.

So, picking up the weak man, Brienne moved to the door, hearing a whispered 'thank you,' from Tywin on her way out.

Turning into the corridor that would lead her out of the prison, Brienne, Jaimie Lannister hanging over one of her shoulders, realized that all in the dungeons had grown quiet and that a lone figure stood in her path.

Dressed in plate mail armor with the crest of his house upon his chest, helmetless, Brienne of Tarth beheld Joran Blood Bear standing in her way, his famous axe Northguard strapped to his back, and his valyrian steel sword Longclaw drawn and held with both hands, waiting for her.

"I figured as much from the Lady Catelyn," Joran said, his voice devoid of any emotion towards the sight in front of him, "granted, I didn't think she'd attempt this so soon. Although I hadn't liked putting a tale on her, I see now that it was necessary."

Setting Jaimie down upon the stone floor, Brienne drew her two swords and said, "I don't wish to hurt you Blood Bear, if you stand aside and let me take Jaimie from here, I won't think less of you for doing so."

"You can feel free to leave this place at any time, Brienne, but just you, no Jaimie, no Tywin, only you," Joran said, stating his meaning plainly.

"I cannot leave here without fulfilling my duties to the Lady Catelyn," Brienne said, adamant to her mission.

"Then," Joran said, bringing his sword into a battle stance, "I am afraid you won't be leaving here at all then."

…

Joran

Allowing Brienne to step over the bodies of her victims, the good men that he had placed to guard Jaimie and Tywin, Joran waited for the female knight to find her footing before he approached.

Joran couldn't believe that Catelyn would go to such measures to get Jaimie out of prison. After he had tried to stand up for her case, she had gone behind her own son's back and had ordered Brienne to escape with Jaimie. Luckily though, Joran had placed eyes upon the big woman, and those eyes would need to be repaid for it later.

Holding Longclaw out before him, Joran kept his simple forward guard at the ready as he drew closer to his opponent, who held both of her swords unflinchingly in a similar fashion.

Knowing that his valyrian steel weapon would cut through both of hers like butter if he swung hard enough, Joran knew that in order to get enough power into such a swing would need room, and at that point, the walls offered little in that regard.

So, he could only hope that in the process of stalling Brienne, Joran didn't end up getting cut to ribbons in the process.

Testing his opponents defense, Joran thrust Longclaw forward, using his weapons superior length to try and gauge the knight in the breastplate.

Brienne soundly parried his simple thrust, to follow up with a swing from each of her own swords in turn.

Blocking both of her attacks, Joran doubled his effort, knowing now that this wasn't a simple knight he was fighting, and attacked her with a swing to her head, a feint, and then an attempt to strike at her knees.

With a parry, block and dodge, the woman evaded Joran's attacks to quickly thrust both of her swords at him, only for both of her swords to be blocked and her points turned to the wall.

Side to side with her, Joran, keeping her opponent's swords in place, looked at Brienne and said, "this doesn't have to end badly, I don't want to have to kill you."

The next thing he knew, Joran was head butted by Brienne of Tarth, which forced him to stagger away from the female knight as he felt pain shoot through his head.

"Funny, I don't wish to kill you either," Brienne said, bringing both of her swords to bare and swinging them in a downward stroke in order to cleave open Joran's shoulders.

Bringing his own sword up, Joran blocked both of Brienne's blades in mid swing. Glaring at the female knight before him, Blood Bear growled, "you'll find that I'm not that easy to kill."

Head butting her in turn, Joran watched as the large woman backed away, then, charging her, swung a barrage of blows to find purchase against her.

Back and forth, the dance of steel went on for fifteen minutes. Joran, trying over and over again to end the fight by breaking Brienne's weapons. But to no avail, every time he tried, his sword ended up getting caught on the walls of the corridor. So on and on, steel rang and echoed as the duel in the dungeons of Riverrun went on without a victor.

Having had enough, Joran removed one hand from Longclaw's hilt and as Brienne moved to swing, he caught her wrist in his hand, while his sword blade locked with her other weapon.

Twisting her wrist and pushing, Joran found that Brienne was not as strong as he had first thought, as she began to give way under his own strength.

In seconds, he had forced her to a knee and forced her to drop the sword from the hand he held in his iron grip.

Brienne was not finished however.

In one quick move, Brienne of Tarth brought up a knee into Joran's groin, eliciting a yell from Joran as he was forced to fall onto one of his own knees.

But, not so easily overcome by an opponent, Joran moved his weight forward onto Brienne, bringing them both to the stone floor of the prison.

Losing their swords, the two warriors wrestled each other for control of the fight.

Finding himself on the bottom, Joran was meat by a barrage of heavy blows from Brienne, blows that made him taste blood in his mouth.

Catching hold of one of her wrists, Joran thrust his weight up, along with one of his fists, and rolled Brienne over to where he was on top of her.

Pounding Brienne's already ugly face, Joran meant to end the fight by knocking her out.

But then, he was hoping for too much.

Catching his fist, Brienne bit into his hand with her teeth, making Joran attempt to get off of her in order to free his hand.

Which he did, losing skin in the process, and his advantage.

Brienne was atop her own feet in seconds, brandishing her dagger and spitting out the flesh she had robbed Joran of.

Shaking out his hand, Joran kept ready for the moment Brienne attempted to bury her steel into him.

Which was sooner than he expected.

Thrusting and swinging at him, Brienne was attempting to breach the openings of Joran's armor.

Joran caught her dagger hand, and twisting her arm up viciously, he then planted another fist into Brienne's exposed elbow, breaking it in the process.

His battle rage in full swing, Joran grabbed his opponent by her hair and slammed her face against the stone wall of the dungeon, breaking the face of Brienne of Tarth against the solid foundation, and ending the fight.

But, Joran didn't stop, he couldn't stop, and before he knew it, Brienne's skull was nothing but mush in his hand and there were the voices of other men in the hallway, yelling for him to stop.

Pulled away from the body of the dead woman, Joran was slapped back into normalcy by Brynden.

"Joran, Joran that's enough, calm down," Brynden's voice sounded in the distant corners of Joran's mouth, the older man pleading for Blood Bear to stop.

Coming out of his blood red trance, Joran looked around him. He was still in the Riverrun dungeons, only now, instead of him being alone with the corpse of Brienne, there were a dozen men down there, a few of them dragging an un walking Jaimie back into his cell, while another few were holding him down.

"I-I'm fine now men," Joran said calmly, taking in breath after breath and finding that the air was filled with the taste of blood.

"Good to hear it lad," Brynden said, looking down at Joran and then over to the body of Brienne, "you really did a number on the woman didn't ye."

Looking over to where Brynden's gaze was, Joran saw his handy work and would have lost his dinner if he were a weaker man.

What remained of Brienne's face was an unrecognizable mash of blood, brain, and eyeballs that was a horrible site to behold.

"Gods," Joran gasped, "What have I done?"


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13: The Beast in every Man

 **Hello and welcome back my many readers and reviewers, it is so good to read what all of you guys have to say about the story. Now, I know that most of what I write, comes back to canon stuff from original works, granted, I needed/need it for a build up for Joran, I will admit that much. So, I apologize to any reader who left a review that I responded to negatively pertaining to that subject. Now, on with the story, and enjoy. NOTE: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, all places people and things pertaining to said works belong to George RR Martin**

Joran

Holding his knees to his chest in a ball upon his bed, Joran Mormont laid there, horrorstricken from what had happened.

Three nights ago, Joran had murdered Brienne of Tarth during her attempt to get Jaimie Lannister out of the prison under Riverrun. Although he had foiled her attempt, and Jaimie was returned to his cell with his father, Blood Bear had gone too far with it. For what he had just stopped from happening, Joran had lost control of himself.

The morning after the attempted escape, Robb had ordered the body of Brienne sent back to Tarth, and his mother to be put under constant surveillance for her orders that had gotten the lady knight killed.

Joran hadn't seen the body leave, in fact, going to bed that night, he hadn't even left the prison hallway.

In a nightmare that felt realer than any dream he had ever had before in his life, Joran watched the events unfold again, watched as he fought Brienne, watched as he bashed her skull against the stone walls, never letting up.

What's worse, Joran had seen the crazed gleam in his eye, knowing that some basic side of him, a side that he had believed to be in control of, had taken joy in killing Brienne.

The day after, Joran had been tired, sluggish, and the worse for wear due to lack of sleep. He had gone through the day as though he was a ghost, a silent specter of a man. Through the council meeting that announced that, Edmure would marry a Frey girl, to the dinner he had had with Dacey, Joran, had been in no mood to speak to anyone.

Falling into his bed the second night, Joran was visited by the same setting, only this time, instead of witnessing himself bash Brienne's skull to the wall, laid witness to the Mountain bashing the skull of an infant child, over and over again, with a woman's scream piercing the silence of the prison corridor. A sick twisted vision that had made him awaken with a startle that very evening.

That day, while avoiding everyone, Joran had gone to see the Maester of Riverrun, whose only recommendation had been milk of the poppy.

On the third night, Joran did as was recommended and taking a small dose of the concoction, he fell into a deep sleep.

But to no avail, the nightmare returned, only instead of a man standing in the corridor, there had been a great red bear. The beast was monstrous in size, if it were standing on its hind legs, Joran would have assumed it would take another man standing on his shoulders to match the beast's height. But the size of the beast only paled in comparison to what it was doing.

Laying upon the stone floor of the prison hallway, was Brienne of Tarth, looking up at Joran, her lips moving without a sound, forming a question that he couldn't hear or understand, as the bear ate her entrails.

Knowing he was unable to wake, Joran watched as the beast ate Brienne, when her life was gone, the bear turned on Joran, and in one mighty bite from its gigantic maw, it swallowed him whole.

But, instead of the belly of the monster, Joran had found himself, cold, in the middle of a snowstorm.

Looking around, Joran had seen no other signs of life in the snowy wasteland, until one appeared to him.

It was a faceless woman dressed in fur.

She approached him and in a voice as sweet as honey, had said to him, _a war is coming, Joran. A war_ _that will last generations if the catalyst is not stopped. Stop them, before they start it_.

Then, before Joran could ask what she meant, the woman was gone, and he found himself in the middle of the same wasteland, only now, it was inhabited by countless corpses all around him.

One of them, rising from the ground, stood in front of Joran, and with its eyes of blue, drew a sword of ice from the earth and cut him down where he stood.

That, was when Joran had awakened, and that was when he had assumed his current position.

After hours of being awake, Joran hadn't been able to fathom what he had seen, and what he had done was sticking into his heart like a dagger.

Before much longer, there came a knock upon his door, and the voice of a woman, "Joran?"

It was Dacey, "Joran, are you awake?"

Her voice almost sounded like heaven to Joran, if there was a heaven that existed for someone like him.

"You need to get up Joran," Dacey continued, "there is another council meeting that requires you in it. Robb is trying to figure out a way to put your plan into play, but he can't see a good way to go about it unless you are there. You were the one who had proposed the idea after all."

When Joran didn't answer, Dacey opened the door, shocked to find him as he was.

"Joran?" Dacey said, her eyes wide at the sight of him.

Shaking, Joran said nothing as his sister approached.

"Joran, what's the matter," Dacey asked, slowly sitting down beside Joran's head and gently putting a hand upon his sweating brow.

"Dacey," Joran seemed to sob, "do you think differently of me after what happened in the prisons?"

"What," Dacey said in shock, stroking Joran's head just like she used to do when they had been younger and Joran would occasionally fall asleep on her lap, "no Joran. You did your duty to Robb in stopping Brienne. There is no need to blame yourself for what happened in the corridor. She had a dagger, you did what you had to in order to stay alive."

"But," Joran said, sniffling as though he was a child again, "what if there had been another way, a way where I didn't have to kill her?"

"Then, you would have found one Joran," Dacey said, "but, given what happened, there was only time to act, there was no time to think of an alternative."

"What if there was, Dacey," Joran said, speaking what he his mind feared, "but, instead of taking it, I chose to kill her, without even knowing it and yet at the same time, wanting it?"

After a brief pause, no doubt in order to collect her own thoughts, Dacey Mormont said, "do you remember what our cousin Jorah taught us when we were younger, after he had returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Joran, shaking his head, had forgotten.

"He told us," Dacey continued, "that there is a beast inside every one of us brother, and it stirs whenever you put a sword in its hand. In a way, Jorah was right in that regard. Every time we find ourselves fighting against an opponent, there is always something else that comes forth instead of ourselves to do the bloody deed. At these times, we cannot control ourselves when it comes out. But, afterwards, we can regain control when there is no more need to have that darker side of us out.

"It wasn't the real you that killed Brienne brother, it was only the nature that dwells in all men, the beast that is always there within all of us."

Joran considered what Dacey was saying to him for a moment, that it was the nature of all men to kill, regardless of who they were when they weren't in the act.

"I know you will find a way to keep that part of you in control brother," Dacey said, planting a soft kill upon his head, "you've done it for so long, that I know you will succeed in this regard."

After that, Dacey left Joran alone to ponder what had just passed between them.

 _There is a beast inside every man,_ Joran thought, hearing his cousin Jorah's voice, _and it stirs whenever you put a sword in its hand._

The words rang some truth to it, the nature of all men and the beast within.

Rising to a sitting position upon his bed, Joran swore to himself, then and there, that he would allow such a nature, such a beast to remain in him, but to only let it come out when he called, and not let it out without some way to pull it back.

This, Joran promised, in the memory of the woman he had killed all because she had been honor bound by her Lady.

…

Brynden

Sitting in his chair beside his fellow Riverlords, Brynden Tully listened on as his grandnephew spoke about Joran's plan and how they were going to use it to a degree.

"If we can send spies throughout the Reach, from the northern border to the southern, we can find out where the supply trains are located, and destroy them in due course," Robb spoke to all present in an assured voice, "but, until the scouts return, we cannot take any action whilst Tarly is gathering and training his conscripts."

"Aye," the northern lords spoke up in agreement, as did a few of the Riverlords.

"But, before we can send out our scouts, we must get Walder Frey's agreement to our marriage proposal," Robb said, sitting himself back down, "without his men backing us, our numbers would mean little against Tarly, who is already awaiting us at Horn Hill. The moment we move; he'll strike out against us without a second thought."

"Aye," Brynden said, leaning forward over the table as he spoke to his King, "that Randyll's a prickly man to say the least, always was, always will be, so if we plan on doing anything, we need to do it fast, lest the conscripts grow large enough that we'd be facing two giant armies to either side of us."

All agreed, if they were to go about these plans, they had to do so quickly.

"Have the Maester send another raven out to the Twins," Robb said to a page present, "we must get an answer from Walder Frey before our position grows worse."

As the boy exited the Main Hall to do his task, another figure entered through the doors past him.

To Brynden's surprise, Joran Mormont was up and actually moving about.

"My sister's told me that you agreed with my idea," Brynden could tell that Joran's voice and welfare were shaping up rather well, considering his lack of sleep.

Nodding, Robb said, "after a day's consideration outside of council and a night on top of that, I have come to agree with your proposal to attack the supply trains."

As Joran took his seat next to him, Brynden gave the younger man a half smile to show how happy he was to actually see him.

"I'm glad that you found the time to actually think that there was some sense in the plan I proposed," Joran said, gaining a half smile of his own, "that aside though, why has Frey not answered us, now that we have Edmure in agreement to a match, what's stopping him from picking a daughter for the heir of Riverrun?"

"Well, considering the fact that we've treated him like the piece of wet filth that he is," Brynden said nonchalantly to all present, "he means to make us wait awhile it would seem, before he agrees to such terms."

"Thank you again by the way, Edmure," Joran said, looking at the Lord of Riverrun from across the table.

"Just give me enough wine and a dark room to get it over with, and I'll be right as rain in the morning," Edmure said with some semblance of comedy, which brought a laugh to the lords present at the table.

"So then," Brynden watched as Joran went on, now looking at Robb and asking, "would it be too soon to ask just how many men your new wife can promise us, for the fighting of course?"

"No," Robb said, the Blackfish telling that the Young Wolf was beginning to get agitated towards Joran, "the Westerlings can give us five hundred men at most now, but, once we have the Freys back with us, as well as the merging of the men we have on the other side of the Trident with Lord Bolton, our numbers will be large enough to make an assault on the Reach's supply trains with little difficulty."

"Aye, that is good," Brynden could already hear Joran counting the numbers, before he ended up stating them, "so, twenty-six thousand and five hundred, that's if we include the Frey's and your wife's men. There is the fact however that we need to leave men to defend our interests here in Riverrun, and there are the common folk that we need to look after, lest Tarly attempts to invade the Riverlands like Tywin did before hand."

"What would you suggest then, Lord Mormont," Robb asked.

"Well, your Grace, I would recommend leaving the majority of our Riverland forces to garrison Riverrun, as well as conduct scouting missions across the border with the Reach, and the Westerlands now that we no longer have a presence there. And, I would also advise that as we attack the supply trains meant for the Reachmen and King's Landing, that we obtain their goods and return them to our home base of operations, dispersing them as they are needed for the coming winter months in order to feed our men."

"Aye," came the voices of the Riverlords in agreement, as well as the voice of Galbart Glover and Greatjon Umber.

"Let's use the flowers own seeds to feed us I say," Brynden added, "why not, we aren't held up in a keep like Tywin was, we bleed the Reach's resources, starve them for good measure, and after a month or two, take the fight to them when they are the least bit willing to fight."

Nodding, Robb looked at Joran and asked, "how many men would you leave to defend the Riverlands, as well as the common folk, Lord Mormont?"

"Five thousand," Joran said, "the majority of what I already have left here in Riverrun should suffice to keep a good hold on the Riverlands from this front, as well as defending the common folk, and allowing a man I trust to remain here to hold them while we are away, I shall only take a thousand men with the me as I follow the main army to where you need us to go, your Grace."

"That sounds like a promising idea," Edmure said, agreeing with Joran, "we'll need men to hold the Riverlands, and what better men than those from the Riverlands who've already know their way going about it."

Another loud agreement came from the Riverlords.

"That five thousand would be needed with the main army though," Lord Karstark said above the brief din, "we leave them here, they'd be easy pickings for Randyll Tarly if he did invade."

"You have little faith in the Riverlanders, Lord Karstark," Joran said as a fact more than a question, "I myself have seen how reliable they can be when put to the task, it was they the majority who aided in defending this land while you were off having fun in the West. It was they under my command who took battle to the Lannisters and gave us a greater victory than we could have ever hoped for in this War. To doubt their strength, would be a grave mistake, Lord Karstark."

Seeing Rickard Karstark seething with anger, Brynden was surprised that the great bearded man retook his seat without an argument.

"The five thousand shall remain here," Brynden heard Joran continue, "the other thousand, made up of the reformed Oath Bound, shall ride with the main army until further notice."

"And who would you suggest to hold the Riverlands while we are away, Lord Mormont," Robb asked, clasping his hands together in front of him.

"Well, I would recommend Brynden Blackfish first and foremost," Joran said, offering a smile to Brynden, "he was one of the men I could count on the most during my campaign against Tywin, and he's my first choice among many others who I would choose."

Before Robb could say an agreement or otherwise, the doors to the Main Hall were opened to admit three men, all of whom looked travel weary, one of them more than the other two.

One of the guards outside announced them all.

"My Lords, your Grace, I present Lothar Frey and Walder Rivers from house Frey, and Dorin, a northman with word for the Lord Joran Mormont."

Seeing a look of recognition cross over Joran's face, Brynden listened as Robb called an end to the war council and as the majority of the northern lords and Riverlords exited and only himself, Robb, Edmure and Joran, along with their guests remained.

"Come forth," Robb commanded all three of the men.

Stepping forward, only one of the three showed respect to the King in the North, and that was the Dorin man, who fell to a knee in the presence of his lord and king.

"What business brings you so far south, Dorin," Robb asked the man, who rose from the ground and answered.

"I've come bearing news and a message to my Lord Mormont your Grace, from his man Garratt in The North."

As Joran stepped towards Dorin, Brynden looked over the Freys present.

Walder Rivers, also known as 'Black Walder,' was the bastard son of Walder Frey, a vicious man with a bad appetite for violence it was said.

Lothar Frey, Black Walder's half-brother, was said to be a more sensible man than his father and brother, and due to his crippled leg, he was a less intimidating figure than the latter.

"I am happy to receive you both into my company," Robb Stark said, forming some semblance of a smile upon his face, "I trust that you bring word from your father as to the answer of our new arrangement?"

"Indeed we do your Grace," Lothar Frey said, limping over to a seat to rest his injured leg, while his bastard brother followed suit and found a chair right next to him, "our Lord father, finds this agreement to his liking, and he is quite happy that the Lord of Riverrun would show an interest in the marriage proposal to one of his daughters, who he has chosen just for the Lord Tully."

"Does she have a name," Edmure asked, eyeballing the Frey brothers with contempt.

"Roslyn, my Lord," Black Walder answered, matching Edmure's stare, eye for eye, "and we are pleased that you do not ask for anything else that could insult us currently."

"Heh," Edmure said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, probably trying to remember why he was marrying a Frey again.

"I am pleased to hear that Lord Walder finds the match agreeable," Robb said after a brief look at his uncle Edmure, "and I would ask, what other word does he bring to us about the engagement."

"Our Lord father requests that the wedding be held at the Twins, your Grace," Lothar said, "due to his age and his infliction with gout, I fear that he would not be able to make the journey if the wedding were to be in Riverrun, and attending his daughter's wedding is paramount in Lord Frey's mind."

 _Among other things,_ Brynden thought bitterly of the man who he only knew as the 'Late Walder Frey.'

"It would be our honor and pleasure to attend the wedding at the twins, my lords," Robb said grimly, "when would the Lord Walder be hosting the celebration?"

"He only asks," Black Walder said coldly, "that you be there within two weeks-time. That will give us enough time to relay your agreement and it will give him ample time to prepare to host you at the Twins."

"Splendid," Robb said, moving around the table and as the two Frey's rose, he shook each of their hands in turn, "two weeks then and not a moment later. Go now, eat and rest, you'll have a long ride ahead of you back to your father with my agreement."

As he watched the Freys leave, Brynden's eyes turned over to Joran, who reading over a letter that had no doubt come with the man Dorin, stood transfixed by what he was reading.

"What is it," Brynden asked, stepping over to Joran.

"Theon Greyjoy, has been captured," Joran said, a smile forming in his beard as he looked at Brynden, "he was raiding the Stony Shore before a contingent of my men attacked his band. Left for dead, his men driven back into the sea, Theon is now being taken to Bear Island to be held for ransom as we speak."

As Joran handed him the letter, Brynden looked over the contents and nodding in approval of what he read, said, "luckily your men were there, otherwise he would've gotten away clean."

"How were your men to even come there, Lord Mormont?"

Both men turning to face their King, Brynden and Joran both found a rather stern and angry look about the Young Wolf that didn't fit his pale complexion.

When Joran stepped past him, Brynden listened as Blood Bear took the lead in answering.

"After you left westward your Grace," Joran began his story, "I had ordered the other four hundred Bear Islanders under the command of my second, Garratt the Grey, to head northwards. Giving them specific instructions, I had my man place a force at Moat Cailin to help garrison the men you had already stationed there for the protection of the passes across The Neck, another across the Stony Shore, and a last one at Winterfell."

"Why?" Robb said, appearing baffled as to why Joran would do such a thing when there had been no cause.

"It's a well-known fact that I didn't trust the Greyjoy boy, your Grace," Joran answered simply, "and I am sorry that, I ended up being proven right after the fact that he betrayed you this last month. Figuring that his father, Balon, would see the North as an easy target for raiding now that most of the men were gone, I acted as fast as I could to put what few men I had to better use than down here."

"You went behind my back, Lord Mormont," Robb growled, "and I do not take kindly to that fact. I only gave you orders to protect the Riverlands, not The North. You had no right to do what you wanted and secretly send men home without my knowledge."

"I didn't send men home, your Grace," Joran said, an edge to his own voice, "I sent them, to protect your home, my home, and the other lord's homes. If I had done nothing as you wanted, ignore what I knew due to my knowledge of the Ironmen, we would have no way of getting back up north, the Ironborn would raid as they wish, and worse could have happened at Winterfell."

"It was not your choice to make," Robb said, stepping closer to Brynden and Joran, "I am your commander and I am your King, you do what I say when I say to do it, not the other way around. You were only ordered to protect the Riverlands, nothing more. I should whip you for disobeying me."

"Go ahead your Grace," Joran said mockingly, "the moment you do so, is the moment you lose the only friend you've had here in the Riverlands who's fought to keep this war from being lost."

Before either of them could approach each other and come to blows, Brynden put a hand upon Joran and keeping him at bay, looked to Robb and said, "don't mind him your Grace. He's just tired, I'll see him to the Maester so that he can get looked at."

Glaring at Joran, Robb grudgingly conceded and said to his granduncle, "be sure that he does. And regardless of how tired you are Lord Mormont, this discussion isn't over."

Pulling Joran out of the Main Hall and into the outside corridor, Brynden walked with a hand on the younger man's shoulder as he asked, "are you alright Joran?"

"I'm fine," Joran said, taking a deep breath in and out, seeming to calm his own nerves, "Gods, I can't seem to do anything _right_ in his eyes."

"Don't worry," Brynden said, looking back down the corridor to only find the Dorin man following them, "he'll come to his senses and actually thank you later on for what you did."

"Let's be so lucky," Joran said, coming to a stop to address Dorin, "get something to eat and some rest Dorin, you've earned it regardless of what his Grace says. In the morning, I need you to return to Winterfell and tell Garratt that the Greyjoy boy isn't to be harmed until our return."

"Yes Milord," Dorin said, turning from them both after a quick nod and moving to go find himself some supper.

"What do you mean to do once you end up being back in The North," Brynden asked.

"After this war," Joran said, his eyes following his man until he was out of site, "I intend on holding Theon Greyjoy hostage for as long as possible, that can keep his father from trying anything further in the future."

Watching as Joran turned and stomped down the hall, Brynden said under his breath, "we can only hope."

…

Joran

That night, Joran, free from the nightmares of his deed, found himself being pelted with snow as it rained down from the sky, in the barren snow-swept wasteland that had been in his dream the previous night.

In his right mind, Joran wandered the cold land for what felt like a minute in his dream, until he made it to a cliff.

Looking over it, Joran beheld a small village of people, all covered in snow beaten furs with weapons of various designs and makes.

They were Wildlings. Men, women and children all. And looking over the huts and shacks that were built all along the shore, Joran figured that this place must have been the location of Hardhome, a Wildling settlement he had heard of from the few Night's Watchmen that had come to visit his island to find men for the watch.

 _Quite a site, isn't it,_ came a woman's voice from behind Joran.

Turning from the peaceful goings down in Hardhome, Joran beheld the faceless woman once again, only this time, she had flowing brown hair that fallowed the wind.

"Aye," Joran said, taking a step towards the faceless woman in fur, "it's the closest thing that I've seen from the Wildlings to be remotely civilized."

 _When put to the test of time,_ the woman continued, her voice devoid of emotion, _men and women both find their true worth in the world, and it is so for the Free Folk in the Lands Beyond the Wall._

"I can only imagine," Joran said, briefly looking over his shoulder back in the direction of Hardhome, "with these lands always in the grip of unforgiving cold and winter, one can only imagine how to survive."

 _If you had been born here,_ the woman said, _the land would have suit you, perhaps even turned you into a King Beyond the Wall if you lead the people as well as you do in the south._

"Eh," Joran said, feeling as though he could disagree with the woman, "I appreciate the complement, but, I know next to nothing about how to be a King, regardless of he's on one side of the Wall or the other."

 _The times to come will test you in that regard, Joran Mormont,_ the woman said sternly, _and those times will soon be upon you, and your wayward blood._

Before Joran could inquire what she meant, the wind picked up, and all he could see was white before waking up to the sound of the Riverrun outside of the castle and a cock crowing to signal morning.

Rising to a sitting position atop his bed, Joran ran a hand through his beard and hair, wondering _who is she?_


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 14: A Wedding to Remember

 **Hello and welcome back my fellow fanfiction writers and readers. My apologies for the late update, work really caught up with me this past week and I haven't been able to come near my laptop in days. But, I'm back and I hope you all didn't miss me too much. Now, my thanks for the many and mixed reviews to the story thus far. To those of you who believed that Joran didn't need to be sad about what he did to Brienne, try to get the picture that I wanted him to actually appear more human when it came to how he would feel about killing a woman, granted she looked more like a man on paper, but she was a woman nonetheless. To the other positive men and women who have contributed their thoughts and opinions, I thank you kindly. Now, on with the story! Note: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire related, all people, places and things pertaining to these stories belong to George RR Martin.**

Joran

Three days after his little quarrel with the King in the North, riding at the head of the column of soldiers under his command, now three thousand strong after uniting his new one thousand Oath Bound warriors to the original two thousand Bear Islanders he had brought south, Joran in his plate mail, a worn traveling cloak upon his shoulders, had been assigned to bring up the rear of the northern army that was now marching to the Twins for the wedding of Edmure Tully.

Jarak the Heavy riding beside him, Joran had only himself to blame for where he was put in the mobile army. Considering how the Young Wolf was still sore about what the Lord Mormont had done to defend their home from certain attack. So, as punishment, Joran had been commanded by Robb to bring up the rear of the caravan and given the task to protect that rear from any surprise attacks from enemy troops.

Joran had laughed to himself when he had received the message, he had also laughed when word reached him of the other northern lords hearing about his little coup.

After leaving Riverrun in the hands of the Lord Tytos Blackwood and five thousand soldiers, Joran had been approached by each northern lord in turn.

Galbart Glover, though staunch in his loyalty to the Starks as any of the lords presently under Robb's command, had believed that Joran was in the rite to do what he had to and Joran presumed to be expecting a thank you of some kind when they returned to find Deepwood Motte had been well defended along with Bear Island due to the measures that had been taken.

Jon Umber had been bellowing in the privacy of Mormont's chambers with joy for Joran, regardless of what his King thought. The tall man had stated proudly to Blood Bear that he was the finest warrior that they had, a man of the people, and for the greater good of their new nation, he had done them a great service. When the Greatjon had said everything he needed to Joran, the younger lord had felt a small blush creep across his face, much to his own embarrassment and the older man's comical enjoyment.

Rickard Karstark, though no less grateful to Joran than any other lord, still seemed to skirt the younger man's presence like a plague due to his loyalty to Robb. Unable to blame the man, Blood Bear, knowing full well about the Lord Karstark and his family's ancient yet strong ties to House Stark through blood, allowed the older man to do as he would. Joran never needed a thank you from his elders before, and he wasn't about to go looking for Rickard's now.

But, although the Lord of Karhold had been without words for him before they left Riverrun, Joran had ended up finding Rickard's living sons more vocal in their gratitude regardless of their father.

So, after the second day of riding in the back, Joran ended up not minding how Robb felt towards his decisions, because, like the Blackfish had told him and the other northern lords had shown him, the Young Wolf would eventually come around to thank him.

"Sers," a decrepit voice called, bringing Joran's attention to the side of the road where he beheld a man, woman, and girl in clothes that were drenched from rain and worn down to almost nothing but rags on their ragged bodies, that appeared to be nothing but skin and bone.

All three of them held out their hands to the passing soldiers in the column before Joran's, and they begged for food from every man who was marching.

"Spare some food," the man pleaded, his hair long, matted with dirt, his beard appearing to have lice crawling around in it, and his body looking like something that any man could put over his knee to break.

"Please," the woman spoke up right next to him, the man's wife Joran presumed, looking no better than her husband in a dress that hid little of her condition "my daughter is hungry, may we have only a little food to nourish her?"

As for the little girl, looking even less than human than her parents, she could only look at each man when they passed them by with huge doe eyes that screamed for help.

Disgusted by the soldiers in the ranks in front of him, man after man of them walking by the family without even a look of pity upon their faces for the downtrodden, Joran raised a hand and ordered a halt to his column.

Mirroring his lord, Jarak raised a hand and called a halt back to the three thousand behind them, riding from the front to relay the message further back personally.

Noticing that the army had stopped, the family on the side of the road stopped in their pleas and looked directly at Joran with eyes of fear rather than hope.

"Milord," Jarak said, returning to his place beside Joran, "the army will not wait for us to catch up, regardless of why we have stopped."

Pointing over to the family, Joran, appearing not to care about the army that was still marching on, looked over to Jarak and asked, "what does that look like to you, Jarak?"

"It looks like something that all wars have, milord," Jarak answered with a shrug as he looked at the ragged people sitting upon the road, "smallfolk who suffer due to the costs war brings with it."

"Exactly," Joran said, dismounting from his horse with little trouble in his armor, "and imagine how you would feel, were you in their position, hungry and cold, forced to watch as a thousand men walking by you, simply ignored your pleas for help to feed your wife and daughter. I will not ignore them and if any of the army marching on says that I am wrong for not doing so, then they can all bugger themselves."

Laughing at the quip, Jarak watched as Joran made his way over to the family, who huddled together at his approach.

Raising his hands to show he meant no harm, Joran slowly approached the three urchins and kneeling down to eyelevel with the sitting trio, said, "where do you three come from?"

Breaking away from his family and crawling towards Joran, the man of the group, keeping his head low to the ground as if Joran was one of the Seven come into being before him, said, "we come from King's Landing, Sire. We were trying to escape the place well before the siege. Carrying as much as we could to survive, it still wasn't enough, and what little we had had before, had been stolen from us by Reachmen before we were able to cross the border two weeks ago."

Nodding, Joran could only imagine what two weeks of hunger must feel like.

"We've tried to live off the land, Sire," the decrepit man said, rising into a sitting position before Joran, who could see tears falling from the man's face, "but without weapons to help us, we've been forced to only live off of the roots and berries of the forests here, and with little else, we are starving Sire."

When the man broke into a fit of sobbing, burying his face in his hands, Joran did perhaps the most unthinkable thing any lord would have done to one of the common people.

He patted the man on the shoulder and said, "it is all right now, I will help feed your family as best I can."

When the words had left his mouth, Joran could see the man look at him as though he truly was one of the Seven, come to show mercy to the faithful.

"Seven blessings to you Sire," the man said, bowing to Joran.

"Stand up man," Joran commanded while gaining his own feet, feeling rather uncomfortable that someone would bow to him in such a way.

When the man had gained his feet, he called to his family, who approached cautiously and awaited Joran's next words.

"Jarak," Joran called back to his second, who rode up immediately to his lord's side.

"Yes milord," Jarak said, looking briefly between Joran and the family.

"Take the mother and child upon your horse, I'll take the man on Kisha, and we'll catch up to the rest of the army," Joran commanded.

Knowing his Lord's intent, Jarak did it without a second thought, waving the mother and daughter over to him, he dismounted and helped the two into his saddle, before retaking his seat upon his large horse, who at the slight weight addition, didn't seem to mind the extra cargo that seemed rather light.

Approaching his horse with the ragged man in tow, Joran asked without looking at him, "what is your name?"

"Tobi, Sire," the man answered.

"Well Tobi," Joran said taking a hold of Kisha's reigns before turning to look at the man, "you will be my guest for the time being. As your host, I must advise you to not attempt to steal anything from me, lest I am forced to reprimand you. Do as I say, do not cause trouble for me or my men and you can be on your way to…wherever it is you were planning on heading before. Am I understood."

When Tobi nodded, Joran believed he could see a few lice falling out of his beard.

Mounting his horse, Joran gave Tobi a hand in getting up in the saddle and when the other man was settled in, he commanded his three thousand to march on.

…

After the army had come to a halt for the night, one day away from their destination, Joran was called into the command tent upon invitation of his King to dine with the rest of the northern lords while they made further plans for after the Frey's army had been added to their numbers.

Seated in between the Greatjon and Brynden Tully, Joran listened to Robb speak while each man's plate was delivered to them by servants.

"Once we have the Frey's with us, as well as the Bolton men," Robb said, standing at the head of the dining table within his tent, "we'll number enough to launch a new assault upon the Reach that even Randyll Tarly won't be able to stop.

"Under the advice of Lord Mormont," Robb said reluctantly to all present, giving a passing glance to Joran, "we will be taking our time with our campaign there, our goal is to take away what supplies they have going to King's Landing, as well as those going out to their armies, and confiscate them to our own benefit. Granted, it will take us longer to gain a foothold towards King's Landing, but, after we have succeeded in starving our enemies out, when the time comes for us to march upon the city, we'll meet a hungry foe who has no strength to fight us."

"Aye," all present there said to the assuring plan.

When a servant came over to Joran with a plate of pheasant with little potatoes, Blood Bear stopped the boy from setting his plate down and, after ripping off one of the small legs of the meal and taking two of the potatoes, ordered the lad to bring it to his guests waiting in his tent.

As the boy went to do so, Joran spoke up, "with your permission, your Grace, I would wish to have the honor of leading these raids upon the supply caravans personally."

"The honor of who is to lead these raids has yet to be put to a vote, Lord Mormont," Robb said, looking directly at Joran, "which we cannot have at present until the representative of the Frey men and Lord Bolton present to have a final decision on the matter."

"Very well then your Grace," Joran said before popping a potato into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it before he continued, "then perhaps I can give you another suggestion, as to how to go about using the supplies that we will be taking from the Reachers in due course."

"We're all ears, Lord Mormont," Robb said in a huff, before retaking his seat and accepting the plate that a servant presented him.

"Perhaps, we could give back what we steel from our enemy, to the common folk," Joran said, lifting a hand, halting a storm of disagreement before continuing, "not all of it, but a portion, something that we can give back to those who have lost more to this war than most."

"I fail to see how that would help in the campaign, Joran," Robb said, looking away from his dinner to look at all of his lords present, "the southern commoners believe us to be men who can change into wolves and eat the flesh of the dead after every battle. I don't suppose that they'd even bother accepting any food we try to give them for our trouble."

"Before you dismiss it your Grace," Joran said sternly, remaining adamant towards his proposal, "consider how the southern commoners have been treated by their own lords. Especially the ones in King's Landing. If this war is anything like the past ones, people are hungry and people are getting angry because they are hungry. We give away some of what we take, and the people just might be the keys into the Capitol."

"Hm," the Greatjon said with a nod of approval, stroking his beard in thought to what Joran was saying, "that could actually work. Since now, after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, people are going to start begging for food again. And, there are a few people who have a mind to give them some."

"The Tyrells," Brynden said, a look of realization coming to his face.

"Aye," Greatjon said, "we take away the food that the Tyrells are giving to the people of King's Landing, we take away the only thing that the people are loving them for. When that's gone, civil unrest will spread throughout King's Landing like the Wildfire that saved the City. And who knows, we give anyone coming out of that cesspool some food, we may not even have to lift a sword to take that damned place."

Soon, Joran began to see the heads of Galbart Glover, Edmure Tully, and even Rickard Karstark nod in agreement to what he was proposing.

"I will keep your proposal in mind, Lord Mormont," Robb said, silencing the talk that began to fill his tent, all of which was about Joran's idea, "should it be a card that we need to play in the future, I will hold you responsible if it fails."

"From what I've seen your Grace," Joran said, remembering the skeletons that looked alive waiting in his tent, probably eating their fill of the majority of his dinner, "you may just have to hold me accountable indefinitely."

Taking a sip of wine, Joran let the conversation end at that and ate what little food he took for himself, knowing that the Blackfish and Greatjon looked on suspiciously at the small portion upon Blood Bear's plate.

…

The next morning, seeing to it that breakfast was given to his guests well before the army was made to depart, Joran had provisions and a horse made ready for the family.

Knowing full well that he couldn't keep the commoners under his care forever, Joran figured that now that they had something to eat, not to mention new clothes that could last them quite a while for wherever they were going, the family could leave him now on their own.

Leading the three people to the edge of the encampment where his man Jarak awaited with the horse and provisions, Joran looked to his three charges and satisfied by what he saw, gave them all a reassuring nod.

Tobi, his beard and hair having been washed per Joran's orders, looked some semblance of normal already now that he had been fed enough to last the man a lifetime. The man's wife, whom Mormont had come to know as Trish, looked far better than she had yesterday when he had found her. And their daughter, with a new doll that Joran had asked a man to sow for her personally, looked more alive than dead now that she had been taken care of.

"Today," Joran said, smiling at each of the commoners before him, "we must part ways my friends. If you wish to continue to the destination that you had in mind before, I will not dissuade you from doing so. But, if you wish for some more help and a place to stay that is well protected from the chaos that is war, I would suggest you all head west towards Riverrun. There, I have made it a safe haven for commoners who are downtrodden like yourselves to live in peace until the war is over."

"Thank you Milord," Tobi said with a bow, "I don't know how we can ever repay you for all you've given us."

"If you do wish to repay my kindness, Tobi," Joran said, clapping the man on the shoulder, "you can do me the favor of sending word to whatever friends you have back in King's Landing a message for me. That not all Lords look upon the common as dirt, and do not be afraid to use my name specifically if you need to prove who helped you."

"When all of my friends here this Milord," Tobi said, smiling with crooked teeth, "they'll be regretting not coming with me."

Chuckling at the remark, Joran gestured over to the horse, and said, "go on now, your road lies before you, best not to keep it waiting."

After each of them giving him a thank you, Joran, with Jarak beside him watched as the family began to head westward toward Riverrun with their gifts.

"Milord," Jarak said in question, "from what I've seen of you over these years, you never cease to amaze me as to what you are capable of."

"Sometimes Jarak," Joran said, looking fondly at the departing family, "I don't know what I'm capable of either."

The two returned to their force and led them out for the final day of marching to the Twins.

…

Reaching the Twins by mid-afternoon, the northern army set up camp upon the western side of the Twins, while every lord and commander ventured into the crossing.

Standing in the main hall of the Twins with his fellow commanders and the ladies of House Stark, Robb's mother, sister and wife the only ones present, Joran looked upon the poor and grey halls of the Frey's in bewilderment.

 _How is it that a man who taxes every person who crosses here, seems so damned poor,_ Joran thought to himself as he looked around. The walls were bare of anything except the banners of the house, the fire of the hearth had barely any wood in it to produce some warmth for the keep, and the floors were filthy from lack of attention. As rich as Joran believed them to be, the Frey's seemed just as poor as he was, and that was saying a lot.

While the bowls of bread and salt were passed around to each of them, Joran, having already taken a piece of bread and dipping it into the salt, beheld upon a wooden chair, Walder Frey.

Surprised to see the man was breathing when he had first walked in, Joran, having believed that there was a corpse sitting in the chair before them in clothing with its eyes open, had almost jumped out of his skin when Walder Frey had greeted them.

"My honored guests," Walder said, seemingly smug to all of them present, "be welcome at my walls and at my table. I extend my hospitality and my protection to you in the Light of the Seven."

"We thank you for your hospitality," Robb said with a nod towards the older man.

Taking a piece of bread and dipping it into salt for himself, Walder ate it without acknowledging Robb.

"I've come to make my apologies, my Lord," Robb said, Joran surprised that the Young Wolf could show some humility for a change, "and to beg your forgiveness."

"You beg my forgiveness, your Grace," Walder said with a mouthful of bread, "it wasn't me you spurned, it was my girls."

Then, with a wave of his hand, Walder summoned quite the number of young women to come before his guests, and Joran could only find the fact that all of them were the man's daughters and granddaughters.

"One of them was supposed to be queen, and now none of them are," Walder said, feigning sadness, before introducing each of the girls to Robb in turn.

"My Ladies," Robb began, "all men should keep their word, kings most of all. I was pledged to marry one of you and I broke that vow. The fault is not with you; any man would be lucky to have any one of you. I did what I did not to slight you, but because I loved another. I know that these words cannot set right the wrong I have done to you and your house, I beg your forgiveness and pledge to do all I can to make amends so the Freys of the Crossing and the Starks of Winterfell may once again be friends."

Feeling touched by the words of his King, Joran began to think better of Robb in that very moment, seeing that, he wasn't a man who would break promises to intentionally hurt anyone, and by honor, he would keep to his knew pledge to them all there.

Joran's admiration was ended though, being brought back to present by the clapping of Walder Frey, who seemed to enjoy the spectacle before him.

"Very good," the old man said, eye balling the congregation of people before him, his eye landing on Jayne Westerling, "there she is, come closer, let me have a look at you."

His queen stepping past him, Joran watched as Jayne stood before all of the northern lords, standing tall before the eye of Walder Frey.

"Still can't see you," Joran heard Walder say, the old man's chair creaking as he leaned forward to try and see Jayne, "old eyes."

Looking to her husband, Jayne was given a nod from Robb to step closer to Walder Frey.

When she came to a stop, Joran noticed that all the Freys seated in the room were looking upon the Queen with eyes that leered, hating and despising her.

"Love," Walder said, leaning back in his chair, now clearly able to see Jayne, "that's what the Starks of Winterfell call it eh?"

Joran could feel the eyes of Robb and Catelyn glaring daggers towards Walder Frey.

"Very honorable," the old man continued, "I'd call it a pretty face, hm, very pretty. Prettier than this lot that's for sure." Walder said this while looking around at all of his flock present before his gaze returned to Jayne, "very shapely as well. Oh you try to hid it under that dress. If you wanted to hide her, you shouldn't have brought her here in the first place."

The last words directed towards Robb set Joran's blood to boiling.

"I can always see what's going on beneath a dress," Walder said, leaning forward in his chair again, "been at this a long time. I bet when you take that dress off everything stays right where it is. Doesn't drop an inch."

The way Walder Frey leered at Jayne made Joran grip the pommel of Longclaw at his belt tightly with his left hand, holding back his anger for the sake of friendship with this, perverted old man.

"Your King says he betrayed me for love," Walder went on, "I say he betrayed me for firm tits and a tight fit."

Before Robb or Joran could move forward to defend the honor of the Queen, both of them were stopped by Catelyn Tully and Brynden Blackfish.

"And I can respect that," Walder said, noticing the two men and their attempts, "when I was your age, I would've broken fifty oaths to get into that without a second thought."

Looking around the gathered lords as Jayne retreated back into the throng, Walder said, "I have enough room in the Hall for you lot, the rest of your army can stay outside where my men can set up tents for them, with food and ale."

"Thank you, my Lord," Robb said through gritted teeth, holding his composure rather well, whereas Joran was glaring at Walder Frey.

Rising from his seat, Walder Frey said with a clap of his hands, "let's get ready. The wine will flow red. The music will play loud and we'll put this mess behind us."

…

Gladly leaving the main hall of Walder Frey, Joran was shown to his own room in the tower by a servant and when the man had left, Mormont inspected the room.

Rather plain and uncomely for a guest of high rank, Joran figured that every room was just like his, no doubt a ploy by Walder Frey to spite his guests further.

Throwing his pack, Northguard and Longclaw upon the bed, that looked more like a ruck to him, Joran figured that the sooner the wedding was over, the sooner they could leave this damned place.

Untying his traveling cloak, Joran threw it on top of his bed along with the rest of his belongings with a huff.

 _Only the Gods will know how drawn out this occasion will be,_ Joran thought, not looking forward to what Walder Frey would have to say while the wedding was actually happening.

As he set to removing his gauntlets, Joran heard a footstep behind him and in a flash, drew Longclaw from his scabbard and directed it towards the intruder to his room, only to find the intruder to be Roose Bolton.

"I see that the Twins hasn't made your reflexes any less sharp, Lord Mormont," the pale Roose said, his hands raised in surrender, "might I have a moment to speak with you privately?"

"You could've announced yourself sooner," Joran said, retracting Longclaw and returning it to its scabbard, "if I had swung, your head would have been taken from your shoulders like butter."

"Like the Mountain's," Roose asked.

"Aye," Joran said, throwing his sword back onto the bed, "just like him. What is it that you wish to speak with me about?"

"Only about something that the other lords have spoken to me about, prior to my visit here," Roose said, a small smile creeping onto his face, "you've been causing quite the stir since this war began my young friend. Your ploy to take the Reach's supplies from them is, rather ruthless to say the least. I'm surprised that you haven't recommended to send a message to Joffrey and Cersei, by sending them the heads of two lions that I know are in captivity."

Facing Roose, Joran looked into the man's cold eyes and said, "I plan to cause more than just a stir. After this wedding is over, there'll be more to come I promise you Lord Bolton. As to, your inclination, towards the heads of a few lions, I find that living lions in a trout's cage is more comical."

"We aren't men for comedy, Lord Mormont," Roose said, his smile vanishing, "it is a shame though, that you decided to have Tywin and Jaimie Lannister remain at Riverrun under the care of Blackwood. It could have been safer to bring them along in my opinion. Who knows what could happen while you are away."

"I trust Tytos to hold Riverrun from any force that comes its way," Joran said, hooking his thumbs into his belt casually, "and with five thousand men at his back, the siege would be more to our benefit to our enemies."

"I would hope so," Roose said with a nod.

As the man turned to leave, Joran thought he could hear the rustle of chainmail under the man's fine clothes.

"Oh, and by the way," Roose said, turning back to face Joran before the exit of the other man's room, "please, enjoy the hospitality of the Frey's, they are friends after all."

As the man made his exit, Joran saw Gendry entering the doorway with a few more of his things from the ride there.

"Who was that, Milord," Gendry asked, his eyes going between where Roose had been and Joran.

"Lord Bolton," Joran said, eyeballing the doorway in thought before turning back to Gendry.

"Gendry, would you mind fetching Jarak for me, he should still be with the men outside," Joran said kindly to the young man.

"Of course Milord," Gendry said, turning to leave.

"And Gendry," Joran said, bringing the boy's attention back to him, "be sure to come with him, I may have a task for you to do tonight that you might like."

…

Later that evening, among his fellow lords and ladies, Joran, dressed in his fine clothes for the wedding, witnessed the marriage ceremony between Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey.

For all the lack of grandeur that the Frey halls had earlier that day, Joran was impressed to see all of the poor of the place taken away so that the wedding of one of their own could actually look like an occasion people could remember. All around the walls there hung multiple ropes of mistletoe and random flowers that brought more color to the place as the light of multiple candles and a roaring hearth hit them. To top it all off, there was a band that played tirelessly to the enjoyment of Walder Frey's guests.

But, other than all of the splendor of the scenery, Joran found the bride to be a shock to behold.

At first, Joran had believed just as Edmure had that Roslin would not be the diamond that she was presently, but a clump of dirt that the Frey's had wished to bestow upon the Lord of Riverrun out of spite. Now seeing her though, Mormont thought better of the young girl. Roslin was quite a looker to say the least of her youthful beauty, and had he not seen her many female family members, Joran would have believed the girl to be a stranger in the Twins.

Now, with the ceremony over with and the feast commencing and finding himself seated at the end of one of the two front tables mirroring the high table where Walder Frey and the newly wedded couple were now sitting, Joran allowed himself to show some joy to the festivities being held in front of him.

The music was playing, people were dancing and drinking to their hearts desire in front of him, as well as many among the army outside of the fortress, all that Joran could manage was a few laughs and the random smile whenever it was necessary to show that he was having a pleasant time in the company of everyone there.

"Why so grim Joran?" Brynden seated to Joran's left asked while Catelyn on the Blackfish's other side conversed with Roose Bolton, "it's a wedding, not a funeral, for Gods' sake, at least try and appear to have more fun than you are now."

Giving his friend a small smile, Joran shrugged saying, "I'm having fun."

"You look like a timid virgin in his first whorehouse Joran," Brynden said before taking a sip from his cup of wine, "get up and have some fun, you'll feel better than you look right now, trust me. I mean, Edmure is having more fun than you are, and he complained the entire way here."

Looking back over to the high table where Edmure was conversing with Roslin, Joran chuckled at the memory of the man attempting his hardest to dissuade Robb from the idea of him marrying a Frey to now looking like it had been the right choice for him.

"You're right," Joran said, standing up from his seat on the bench, "I think I'll ask my sister to dance with me."

"That's the spirit, try and enjoy yourself please, the war may not be over but we should make the most of this night, could be one of the last ones a few of us have before it's all over," Brynden advised before rising from his seat, "as for myself, I think I'll try to find myself a tree to piss on."

Nodding, Joran said, "good luck and I'll try."

Moving over to the table adjacent to his where Robb, Jayne and Dacey sat with Lothar Frey, Joran made his way behind his sister and asked in her ear, "you want to dance?"

Looking up from her cup of wine, Dacey, wearing a nice green dress, nodded in answer to Joran who took her hand and lead her away from the royals and the Frey she was seated with.

Stepping onto the dance floor, Joran and Dacey began to move in step to the rhythm of the music, both being careful not to step on each other's toes as they moved.

"Saw you attempt to ask that bastard to dance with you earlier," Joran said, keeping in step with his sister, "it's a shame he so rudely declined, it would have been quite the show to see."

"He wasn't interested," Dacey said, keeping a small smile on her face for her brother, "and you, what's your excuse for not dancing?"

"Eh, I highly doubt that any women here would want to dance with someone like me," Joran said, looking around to find many of the Frey girls present staring at him, "a soldier who has the capability of dancing like a tree, stiff and rooted."

"Ha," Dacey laughed at the remark, "maybe before this war you were like that, but, from what I can see now, you are doing quite well thus far."

Nodding, Joran said, "thank you, and if it helps, Walder Rivers is a fool to not have wanted to dance with you."

"Or he is smart," Dacey said with a small smile, "considering who I have as a brother, I'd be lucky to be dancing with anyone other than you this night."

"What about the Smalljon," Joran asked, spinning his sister around while nodding in the tall man's direction, "I'm sure he wouldn't mind dancing with you on my account."

"Maybe," Dacey said, giving a brief glance to the Smalljon who directed small glances towards her and Joran as he sipped wine from his glass, "and maybe he's like a tree."

Laughing at his sister's joke, Joran looked at his surroundings briefly to see if there was anything amiss with the scenery.

Finding nothing, Joran continued to dance with his sister before the music was stopped and Walder Frey called out from his table to Robb, "your Grace. The Septon has prayed his prayers, some words were said and Lord Edmure has wrapped my daughter in a cloak. But, they are not yet man and wife. The sword needs a sheath. And the wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say?"

As all around chanted in agreement, loudly banging upon all of the tables in unison, Joran watched as Robb rose from his seat and said, "if you believe the time is right Lord Walder, then by all means let us bed them."

A loud cheer rang out from all present and before Joran knew it, the music was back on and most of the men and women present began to set upon the married couple.

Watching as northern lords and Riverlords, save for the Smalljon, began to lead Roslin away, the poor girl getting hefted up on the shoulder of the Greatjon, Joran also witness all of the Frey girls set upon Edmure like a pack of wolves upon a deer, every one of the parties going to the same place.

Before Dacey could join the women in helping Edmure to the marital bedroom, Joran took hold of her arm firmly and brought her close enough so only she could hear what he had to tell her.

"Stay here," Joran said, checking around to make sure that no one else could hear what he had to say and finding that everyone was on their feet and clapping merrily as the couple were lead out, "keep close to the Queen, and keep her safe."

"What are you talking about," Dacey asked confused at what Joran was saying, "we're at a wedding, under guest rite, what harm could come to the Lady Jayne here."

"Just do as I ask, please," Joran said calmly, not wanting to appear too conspicuous in front of their host, "for the sake of our King and our Queen, just keep an eye open, alright?"

Nodding while she looked into her younger brother's eyes, Dacey moved over to where Jayne Westerling was standing, keeping her composure as she watched all the other women move on with Edmure between them all.

"It is a shame that our friend Edmure won't be able to enjoy the rest of the festivities this evening," came the voice of Roose Bolton from behind Joran.

Turning around to face the man, Joran looked upon the sober vision of the pale Lord of the Dreadfort and with a small smile said, "aye, tis a shame, then again, the same could be said for those who aren't there to witness the bedding, I would have thought a man like you would have enjoyed such a sight. Considering what I've heard about the rumors concerning the Lords of the Dreadfort and the practice of First Night and all."

"Well, the rumors are false I assure you," Roose said icily to Joran, "and, I rather not speak so openly about such lies concerning those rumors around our Graces there."

Faking an apologetic smile, Joran, noticing what was left of the many Frey's within the hall closing all of the doors and latching them into place, extended out a hand to Roose while saying, "my apologies then, my friend, I've been a little too into my cups at the moment and well, considering how you show little feelings these days, I figured what better to bring some emotion out but with a jest."

When Roose took hold of his hand, Joran made a quick move and moving aside some of the other man's sleeve, saw what he knew would be there, chainmail.

"Don't suppose we're about to go into battle, now are we, my Lord Bolton," Joran asked, a stern look of anger showing towards his supposed ally.

"One may never know in war time, my Lord Mormont," Roose said, before the tune of the music changed from jovial to somber, the tune being played, being the Rains of Castamere.

"Your Grace," Walder Frey said, bringing everyone, save for Roose and Joran's, attention up to him, "I feel that I have been remiss, in my duties I've given you meat wine and music, but I haven't shown you the hospitality that you disserve. My King has married and I owe my Queen a wedding gift."

When Roose attempted to take his hand away from Mormont's grip, Joran held firm and with a heavy hand, punched Bolton in the face, sending the man sprawling to the floor.

"Robb," Joran called, racing to where his King stood and shoving him aside as he heard the whistle of crossbow bolts pelt that very spot.

Feeling each of them puncture into his back and a few into his chest, Joran grunted at the impact of each of them before noticing Lothar Frey limping over to Jayne.

"Dacey, the cripple," Joran yelled before a Frey man with a sword charged him.

Though it hurt to move, Joran caught the man's arms with his hands before the sword could come down on him and twisting viciously, Blood Bear dislocated the Frey man's wrists from their joints and catching the longsword as it fell, he cleaved the man's legs out from under him, eliciting a chorus of agonizing screams from his foe.

"Smalljon, now," Joran yelled, feeling a crossbow bolt hit him in the leg.

As the large man drew his own sword and began to do battle to all of the Frey's that had begun to slaughter the guests, Joran watched as it took Dacey little time to throttle Lothar and take his weapon from him.

Taking hold of an unharmed Robb Stark, Joran, acting as a shield for his King, dragged him further to the back of the hall where the main doors were, with Dacey and Jayne on his tale while dodging crossbow bolts along the way and the Smalljon cut men down to keep the path clear for them.

Gutting a Frey man with only the sword in his hand when he tried to rush him, Joran stopped before the doors and throwing a table over with a pained yell, provided a shield for the royal couple, himself, Dacey and Smalljon as everyone else there was murdered viciously.

Breathing raggedly, Joran looked at Dacey and Smalljon and said, "get these two out of here, meet up with Jarak outside, by now he'll be leading our men against the Freys and Boltons. On your way, Gendry will join you with Arya Stark and Greywind, if the wolf isn't too busy finding dinner out there."

"Thank the Gods that the girl wasn't here when this thing happened," Smalljon, a cut across his eyebrow, said while ducking a crossbow bolt.

"Aye," Joran said in agreement before nodding at the direction of the door, "that's going to be your best way out of here alive, cut down any man who stand in your way, I'll try and join up with all of you as soon as I can."

"You're not coming," Dacey asked in disbelief.

Shaking his head, Joran said, "no, someone has to hold these bastards in long enough for you all to get away, and right now, the only one who can do that is me."

"They'll kill you," Robb Stark said, sitting up from his position on the floor, his wife sobbing as she watched Frey men kill her mother and father.

"They can try," Joran growled, planting his sword point into the floor to try and hold himself steady, "I haven't come this far in this war to be killed off in a pit of weasels now have I."

"No," Dacey said sternly before continuing, "we leave together or not at all, do you hear me Joran."

Seeing as there was no way for him to convince his sister otherwise, Joran nodded before Dacey could add anything further to the argument, "fine, together then, but we have to go now before they're all on us."

"Aye," Smalljon said, taking hold of Robb Stark and acting as the new shield, he rose up and with Dacey, Jayne and Joran hot on his heels, they made for the main doors.

Unlatching and opening the doors for them, Joran watched as the few survivors made it through before slamming the door shut on them and locking them out and himself in.

"Joran! Joran!"

Hearing his sister's yells for him on the other side of the wooden doors, Joran turned away from them to face the Frey men, now finished with all of the other party guests, and readying the sword in his hands, prepared to fight them all.

There were ten of them in there with him, all of them holding knives and swords of their own, all of them with the crazed looks of murder in their eyes.

"So," Walder Frey called from his table, setting aside glass of wine that he had been sipping from for the duration of the slaughter within his halls, "the Blood Bear is all that stands between the Young Wolf and his demise. It is a shame that you'll have to die for a King like that, an oathbreaker and a child to say the least of him. Now a coward, running away with his wolfish tale between his legs to let a bear do his fighting for him."

"I'd rather die for a coward who has the balls to apologize to a weasel like you, Walder Frey," Joran growled, keeping his eyes on the ten men around him, "than to live knowing that I had the chance to save his life when I didn't."

"Sadly for you, either way it wouldn't have mattered," Walder said, gazing into his cup of wine as he continued, "whether the Young Wolf was to die or not, that was not the main purpose of this little coup you see. Granted, the Stark boy was a little bonus for me, the real person who was supposed to feel the edge of the knife this night is you, Joran Mormont."

"Really," Joran said, hiding his surprise well so as not to give the old man any satisfaction, "then come try and deal out the rest of your little plan Frey, for I promise you, if I have any strength left in me once I am finished with your men here, your death will not be as quick as theirs."

"Kill him," Walder commanded, sipping more wine from his cup.

Dodging the first man's sword swing, Joran got inside the man's guard and ran him clean through the torso, pinning him to the wall and taking his enemies sword for his own. Moving on to the next man who held a dirk, Mormont severed the man's arm from his shoulder when he tried to swing the blade at him. Shoving the screaming thing aside, Joran made a move to the next two men who attempted to rush him around a table.

Parrying both men's swords, Joran ducked low and swung through both the legs of the man to his right and shooting his forearm up, he blocked the other man's arm swing while he brought his own weapon up to stab into the man.

Letting the corpse fall, Joran regained his position and looking around, he counted six men left, all of whom were watching him as he inched closer and closer over to Walder Frey's table.

"Don't just stand there you idiots, if you attack him together he won't be able to fight you all off," Walder yelled from his seat.

Doing as their lord commanded, the six rushed Joran at the same time.

Waiting for them, Joran picked his targets carefully for his next attack.

The closest man to get to him had a knife, and Joran dispatched him quickly by severing his head from his body.

Next there was a swordsman who swung high at Mormont and while blocking it, he hadn't seen the other man when he cut him low in the leg.

Feeling pain shoot through his thigh, Joran shoved the swordsman in front of him back and cut the other one who had maimed him down in a flash of steel.

Picking up the fallen man's sword, Joran pointed both of the weapons at all the rest of the four weasels in front of him.

And just as before, they all attacked.

Parrying the first sword that came at him with one blade, Joran used the other to open the man's belly to allow his innards to fall out without much else to hold them in.

Ducking another sword stroke, Blood Bear thrust one blade up through the man's chest and as another came to chop down on him with his weapon, he then cut upwards with his second sword and removed the man's balls from his body as he opened him from groin to naval.

Removing both of his weapons from the corpses that had found purchase upon them, Joran watched as the last man standing attempt to flee across the room.

Not allowing the coward to escape, Joran threw one of his swords into the man's back and watched as he fell face first to the floor.

With no one left on the ground to fight, Joran turned his gaze to a shocked Walder Frey and pointing his sword at the older man, charged through a hail of arrows to get to him.

Hearing crossbow bolts fly past him one after another, Joran didn't care. His bloodlust was at its peak and he would not deny himself the sweat taste of vengeance against the fiend who had killed so many men. So many had died who should have been alive at that moment under the protection of guest rite, but none of that mattered to the old man who had commanded all of their deaths. And now, Joran was going to show him death's true face that night.

Feeling a crossbow bolt fly right across the side of his face, Joran continued to push on regardless of the blood that the bold had produced that he could feel flowing down his right cheek.

Almost at Walder, Joran, feeling the man's end right within his grasp, felt a hand shoot up from the earth and bring him down hard to the wooden floor.

Rolling over to his belly, Joran was soon set upon by Roose Bolton, the man's nose crooked from where he had been pummeled by Mormont beforehand.

Bolton's body pinning his sword arm to the ground, Joran could only watch as the man produced a dagger, and with a crazed look in his eyes, he brought the blade up and said, "Littlefinger, sends his regards."

When the blade fell, Joran's left arm shot up and caught Bolton's fore arm, the knife's tip only an inch from his face.

Bringing his other arm over the pommel of his weapon, Roose pressed down, overpowering Joran's arm to force the dagger's tip closer and closer to its mark.

Feeling the steel touch under his right eye, Joran adjusted his left hand and with a mighty side pull, removed the weapon from his face, yelling as he felt the blade carve open the flesh of his cheek.

Then, his adrenaline running, Joran released his hold on his sword and bringing his arm to bare, grappled Roose Bolton off of him. Now on top, his opponent's arms pinned to the floor by his knees, Blood Bear took hold of Bolton's face and with a mighty roar, began to crush the man's skull.

"Don't worry," Joran growled through the other man's screams of agony, "I'll be sure to give him yours before I send him to the Seventh Hell after you."

Then, with a loud pop, Roose Bolton's skull cracked under Joran's grip, killing him instantly.

Before he could rise from atop the corpse to deal with Walder Frey, Joran felt two more crossbow bolts plant themselves into his back, forcing him to stay down as he lost more blood.

On his hands and knees, Joran, attempting to move on, crawled away from Roose's body only to force a coughing fit of blood to come from his mouth.

"Such a waste," hearing Walder Frey speak, Joran's mind began flashing back and forth form darkness to the murderous main hall of the Twins, "a warrior like you, fighting for a whelp who would call himself king. Seven Hells, you could've taken the crown for yourself by now if you hadn't been such a good soldier, following the pup."

Joran felt a harsh kick to his side, the blow forcing him to lay on his back upon the wooden floor and to look up as Walder Frey stood over him, a dinner knife at the ready to deal the blow that Roose couldn't.

"Oh well," Walder said, "when this is all over, whether I win or not, I will always be remembered by those who come after, not as the Late Walder Frey, but as the man who killed Blood Bear."

Feeling the blood build up in his mouth, Joran could only cough more and more of it out in his attempts to breath.

 _So, this is it then,_ Joran thought as the old bastard knelt down to deliver the final blow that would end his life _, no victory against tyranny, no glorious end upon an open field with my brothers and sisters beside me, and the end of a freedom that I could only imagine to have for myself and my family at home._

Joran could only hope that the Gods of the North could find his soul all the way down here in the south and bring him home where he belonged.

Watching as Walder Frey raised his weapon, Joran watched as the man prepared to kill him.

But, before the knife could fall, Walder Frey was set upon by Catelyn Stark, crossbow bolts in her and all.

Unable to look away as Catelyn carved open Walder's neck from ear to ear, Joran, trying to stay awake, watched as the old bastard died and the woman who had killed him, fall to her knees beside the dying northerner.

"Thank you," Catelyn said, tears falling from her eyes and onto Joran's face, "thank you for giving me back so much that had been stolen from me, my daughter Arya and the life of all my sons."

Then, after a volley of crossbow fire to finally silence Catelyn, the last thing Joran saw was the older woman falling down atop him, and then darkness.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 15: Interlude II

 **Hello my avid fanfiction readers and welcome back to another chapter in the story of Joran Mormont. After reading some of the reviews that are up about last chapter, I appreciate the reviews that show me that I did rather well in regards to my version of the Red Wedding, and I would like to throw a shout out to all the reviewers who have been, however painfully, truthful in what they are seeing with the work here. I know that I have made Joran, a little too good to be true for a human being, having him accomplish feats that everyone knows would appear to be impossible in real life and, although this is my story, I would like to apologies if I made the readers find the story unenjoyable because of the 'superman' effect that I kind of gave Blood Bear. But, now I think that the time has come for another Interlude to see the reactions of all characters on all sides of the line here. Hope you enjoy. Note: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire related, all things in regards to these works belong to George RR Martin**

Robb Stark

Roaming around the grounds outside of the Twins, Robb with Greywind by his side, a bloody sword in his hand wearing nothing but the clothes he had put on for the wedding, looked on at the devastation of the night's bloody battle that had occurred during what was now known as the Red Wedding.

After Joran had saved him and Jayne, Robb had been taken by Smalljon and Dacey all throughout the Twins until they had met up with Gendry, the Mormont's personal blacksmith, and Arya, both of whom held bloody swords in their young hands.

With the two added to their group, they had made their way out of the Twins to find the chaos of the battle raging all around them.

The Frey men mercilessly slaughtered the soldiers of the north and Riverlands who had drunk too much of their fill during the once friendly festivities. Those who didn't die, thanks to Greywind who had been freed by Gendry earlier that evening, fought on against the opposing Frey men to small victories across the plains next to the Twins.

Gathering what men that he could, Robb lead them further out to where the rest of the army was being saved by Joran's man, Jarak the Heavy and the three thousand warriors that had been under the command of Blood Bear since their march. Soon, once Brynden joined in the fight with what Riverlanders he could gather that could still stand straight and swing a sword, the battle was won and it was morning.

Wiping the sweat and blood from his brow, Robb wondered how it could have come to this. Betrayed by Walder Frey, his host, at a wedding that was meant to be an assassination attempt. The Young Wolf couldn't fathom how one slight could make a man take such measures to see him dead.

Then, there was Roose Bolton's part in it all, and the fact that Bolton wanted the same out of the little coup as Walder made Robb all the more furious.

 _I can't even trust my own allies with my life,_ Robb thought, _and now, this campaign's gone to all Seven Hells._

Hearing Greywind's wine right next to him, Robb patted the wolf's head affectionately.

 _At least we've made it through this night,_ Robb thought before footsteps behind him brought his attention away from his animal companion.

Brynden, Smalljon, and Dacey were all walking towards him over and passed the battlefields slain.

Brynden, having received minimal wounds from the fight, looked as grim and old as he actually was finally after the night's events, he almost looked too old to be even holding the bloody sword that he had in his right hand.

Smalljon and Dacey however, were of similar expressions to Robb. Both of them appeared to have been, weeping more or less in that last half hour, their eyes bloodshot and their hair ragged. Robb could only imagine the news he was about to receive.

"What's happened," Robb asked, fearing that somehow Jayne had been hurt during the battle somehow.

"Robb," Brynden said, placing an empty hand upon the man's shoulder before continuing sadly, "your mother's dead."

What Robb felt then was like a punch to the stomach that he had not been prepared for. His heart felt as though it was being stabbed through with the same dagger that had been meant for him in the main hall of the Twins. It was just like when he had heard the news that his father had been murdered by Joffrey. Only now, his mother was the one dead, and there was no one there to comfort him for her passing.

Not having any good trees near him, Robb simply stabbed his sword into the earth and, letting a few tears fall to the blood soaked ground, asked, "how?"

"She fell during the massacre," Brynden said, tears flowing down his old and weathered cheeks, "she was full of crossbow bolts when we found her."

"Who else, is dead that we know of," Robb said, wanting to leave the subject as quickly as possible before he broke down in the open.

"Rickard Karstark is dead," Brynden continued, "he and his youngest son were killed by the Frey's in the same fashion, their throats cut."

"I trust that the oldest son of Rickard is safe," Robb asked, gripping his sword's pommel so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Aye," Brynden said, "he had been among the lords who had gone with the bride for the bedding ceremony, he's not too banged up at the moment, same can't be said for others though."

"Who else," Robb asked.

"When the bedding commenced, the Frey men had attempted to take the lords who had been there hostage," Brynden explained, "it was Rickard's eldest, Galbart Glover, and the Greatjon who fought them to freedom. There were ten of them against the three northerners, and all of them were killed."

"I'm sure the Greatjon will be proud and boasting about it before too long," Robb said with a forceful laugh before his eyes fell to the Smalljon, who still had the look of sadness that could break any weaker man.

"My father, your Grace," the Smalljon said, wiping some snot from his nose, "is dead. He fell fighting six of the Frey men, and from what Glover tells me, he killed them all with his bare hands, their steel in him and all."

"Your father will be remembered for that final victory over our enemies," Robb said, placing a hand on the Smalljon's shoulder, "be proud of him for his final moments."

"The final moments of him killing enemies who were supposed to be our friends," the Smalljon said angrily, shrugging off his King's hand, "he fought for you, your Grace. You made the mistake that brought us here, and now, my father has paid for your mistake with his own life. And I can be proud of him for that much."

When he had finished, Jon Umber moved away from Robb, and seeing no need to keep the taller man before him, the Young Wolf let him go.

"I suppose that Lord Mormont will be wanting to say the same thing to me," Robb said in a huff, knowing that Joran would no doubt give the Young Wolf and earful as to how terrible things had turned out, "he should be here by now, where is he?"

Then, Dacey, stepping towards Robb, did the most unexpected thing that the King in the North would expect from one of his sworn swords.

She slapped him.

Placing a hand over his red cheek, Robb holding back Greywind, looked back at Dacey and listened to what she had to say.

"My brother's body, is not in the Twins," Dacey said through clenched teeth, "he's missing, and it's all your fault."

With that, the Lady Mormont stomped passed him in the same direction as the Smalljon, leaving Robb alone with Brynden.

"I don't suppose you want to cut off her head for that," Brynden asked.

"No," Robb said, shaking his head, "I'll forgive her due to the circumstances. But is there no sign of Joran?"

Shaking his head, Brynden said, "no, we searched the Twins up and down for sign of him, and found nothing but his bloody work he made of the Freys and Bolton in the main hall."

"Do we have all of the Freys in custody," Robb asked.

"All except for Walder Rivers," Brynden deduced, "it seems he's disappeared into thin air. There's been no sign of him and we haven't been able to figure out where he's gone. Or, at least before we found out about Joran."

"Can we spare any men to search for them if that is the case," Robb asked, feeling responsible for the fact that, if it was the case, Black Walder had his hands on Joran Mormont.

"I'll see what we have to work with," Brynden said in answer, turning to it, "and I'll have a report to your tent before the day is out."

"Thank you, uncle," Robb said before making his way back across the battlefield to where there had been a place set up for him and Jayne to stay.

As Greywind walked beside him, Robb could only imagine who was behind this attempt on his life, and what they had in mind for Joran Mormont if the same people had ordered his capture.

…

Brynden

 _Joran, where are you,_ Blackfish thought as he made rounds to count all that was left of the northern army with Jarak the Heavy by his side.

The Battle at the Twins as it was called had been a bloody affair to put it kindly. Frey men who were supposed to be loyal to Riverrun, had butchered a good number of the army of the north, and with the help of the Bolton turn cloaks, they had had an easy way of going about it.

Or, before Jarak had set the Oath Bound and Bear Islanders into action at least, as per Joran's instructions earlier that dreadful evening.

Brynden had chuckled to himself when Jarak had told him of what Joran had ascertained from just one look at Roose, and in disbelief, he could figure as much from Blood Bear.

Granted Joran's warriors had been outnumbered almost two to one that night, Jarak had led them well in the fight against an enemy who had believed to have had surprise on their side.

To Brynden, the battle hardened had prevailed against the momentum of weasels and, if Joran had been there, Blackfish would have remarked how easily a bear can stomp on rodents with just its foot.

Sadly, though Joran wasn't there, and Brynden was stuck with what he knew would not be any better news for Robb pertaining to their forces.

 _We came here with sixteen thousand,_ Brynden thought wiping away some sweat from his face, _now, we barely have enough to make ten thousand._

The best that Brynden could think about doing at that point with what he knew, was to return to Riverrun and regroup there with the fresh forces they had left with Tytos, then go from there.

But where they could go, Brynden could only speculate if they could attempt anything, or even defend anything with what they had.

 _Ten thousand won't be enough to turn the Reach if they send Tarly up here,_ Brynden thought angrily, _and ten thousand sure as Seven Hells won't be able to make a dent in the supply lines._

Everything was going to shit, and now, Brynden had to give that shit to Robb in hopes for a wise decision from his King.

"What do you think Jarak," Brynden asked the grizzly fat man by his side, "what do you think we can do with what we have now after this?"

Shrugging, Jarak stuffed a hand into his hairy beard and as he scratched his chin answered simply "not sure if we _can_ do anything now, not without getting our asses handed to us. We make a move after this, the only thing I can see us doing that would make sense would be to go on the defense until a miracle happens that could help us get back into offense."

"You kind of sound like Joran, you know that," Brynden said with a chuckle, figuring that Blood Bear would have said the same thing as the Heavy.

"Well, after being around him and Garratt all these years, you end up starting to think like the intelligent blokes that you follow," Jarak said, a sad look spreading over his face as he went on, "I can only hope though, that I can lead the Oath Bound just as Joran since, we can't find him."

Patting to fat soldier on the back, Brynden said, "don't worry, you will, and I think Joran would have little trouble entrusting you with leading his men."

Nodding in thanks, Jarak said, "aye, I think this far, he wouldn't have any trouble with me in charge for a time, until we find him."

"Aye," Brynden said confidently.

As they approached Robb and Jayne's tent, the two soldiers beheld a tan skinned man with a goatee and three women outside of it who appeared armed to the teeth.

"Who are you," Brynden demanded of the almost foreign looking people, reaching for his sword in the meantime with Jarak following suit.

"Hold, Ser Blackfish," the man said, holding up both of his hands nonthreateningly, "we are only here to seek an audience with the King in the North and Blood Bear."

Removing their hands from their weapons, Brynden and Jarak looked queerly at the man before Blackfish repeated, "who are you?"

"I am Oberyn Martell," the Red Viper said, giving a polite bow as he did so.

"What kind of proposal could you have for Robb Stark," Brynden asked, keeping wary of the newcomers, knowing full well the reputation of Oberyn and what he assumed were his daughters.

"An alliance," Oberyn said before looking around at all of the carnage in the field, "one that I can tell that you can benefit from very richly if you accept."

"That isn't for me to decide," Brynden said, stepping closer to the four.

As he did so however, the Sand Snakes produced variable weapons to defend their father if the Blackfish meant harm.

Luckily though, Oberyn made them sheath their weapons and Brynden was allowed to come closer.

"What could Dorne offer now of all times," Brynden asked, placing both of his hands upon his sword pommel in a non-threatening manner.

"An ally," Oberyn said, looking Brynden up and down as though the older man was dinner, "which would look to be a fine start after what has happened with this ally here. My brother can offer the aid of our army to your cause, under the command of Joran Blood Bear of course, and you can use it to your full advantage however you see fit."

"What does Joran have to do with this," Brynden asked.

"A debt is owed to that man for what he has done," Oberyn said, inching uncomfortably closer to Brynden, "my brother, and myself, owe Joran Mormont for the death of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, for what he did to our sister Ellia during Robert's Rebellion. And, we both owe him for embarrassing Tywin Lannister and House Lannister as a whole upon the field of battle. In fact, I would like to thank him personally if it can be arranged."

"To tell you the truth," Brynden said, taking a step back from the Dornishman whose breath smelt like old wine and cunt, "Joran's missing, and the only one who can speak for him is his sister, but sadly, she's not in the right state of mind to talk to anyone at the moment."

"Ah, I see," Oberyn said with a nod, "I assume that, you believe he has been taken prisoner by someone?"

"We have a name in mind of who it is," Brynden said, explaining, "we think that Black Walder is taking him to King's Landing as we speak for some reason or another."

"Well then," Oberyn said with a smile, "it is a pity will not get to meet the infamous Blood Bear. But, being a man of my word, as is my brother, we would still like to render aide to your King in any way we can in the coming months against our common enemies."

Starting to like the Dornishman already, Brynden extended a hand out to the Red Viper saying, "it would be greatly appreciated."

Taking the hand, Oberyn then asked, "shall we talk more with your King inside then?"

"Aye, and we can probably have some wine too, if there's any left," Brynden said, walking with Oberyn towards the entrance to the tent.

"Only Dornish would do for me, Ser Blackfish," Oberyn said as Brynden held open the flap for him.

"Oh, I'm sure there's some of that lying around somewhere," Brynden said as he followed the Red Viper into the command tent, leaving Jarak the Heavy alone with the Sand Snakes

…

Gendry

Sitting next to and looking over Lord Mormont's things as he had been told to by Jarak earlier, Gendry almost felt rather sad that his new master had gone missing.

Joran Mormont had been perhaps the first man that Gendry would have liked to serve full time. He didn't treat him any less than any other man in his company, Gendry had even been given many a thank you from Lord Mormont and a silver or gold piece thrown his way for his work. All in all, a blacksmith in the service of a Mormont was quite the job to have if you were poor.

But, now Gendry felt that he didn't have a purpose with Joran gone and, after what his lord had tasked him to do, what he had trusted him to do the other night, the boy felt rather lost without Lord Mormont to lead him.

Watching over Joran's possessions had been the only thing that had been found for him to do, and Gendry felt less useful because of it, even if it was so nothing was stolen from Joran's things.

Having laid out everything upon the bed that Lord Mormont had been given, Gendry had placed everything as neatly as he could manage, given what little he knew about neatness.

At the end of the bed, Gendry had put Joran's pack there, still full of supplies and extra clothes that the Lord had packed for the journey to the Twins earlier that week.

Next to that, was Lord Mormont's plate mail armor bearing his house's crest and the helm that looked like a roaring bear, stacked up by Gendry so that it looked like a half a man on the bed.

Gendry had placed both Northguard and Longclaw next to each other near the head of the bed. The axe that he had taken a rather fondness to considering that it had been a piece of weaponry that Joran had had him make with specifications to the haft, it also being the first thing that Joran had ever thanked Gendry for. Longclaw though, being an heirloom and all, was something to behold for the poor youth and with hopes that one day he could be good enough to forge valyrian steel himself, Gendry swore to take good care of it until his Lord returned.

If he ever did.

"Hey," a small and girlish voice brought Gendry out of his thoughts to find Arya Stark, dressed in pants, shirt and vest as always, standing in the doorway of the room.

"Hey," Gendry acknowledged from his seat upon the bed.

Stepping into the room, Arya asked, "you still waiting for him to come back?"

Chuckling a little, Gendry nodded saying, "yeah, I suppose, it's only been a day since he's been gone, everything's becoming rather orderly now that the mess has been sorted through."

Taking a seat next to Gendry on the bed, Arya said, "how've you been?"

"I'm not sure," Gendry said, shaking his head, "happy, that I had the chance to save you that night."

"I didn't need saving," Arya said, interrupting Gendry.

"All right, _helping_ you then that night," Gendry said with a smile, "but, I'm also sad. One, after that night I don't think I'll ever be able to hold your hand again and two, I'm afraid that Lord Mormont won't come back."

"I'm sure he will," Arya said, ignoring the remark about her hand, "I heard Tywin Lannister call him 'a hard man to kill.' You don't talk about a craven like that, and you don't talk about a coward like that. If the Lannister's words hold truth to them, we haven't seen the last of Blood Bear."

Smiling at the words of his friend, Gendry's look turned somber when he asked, "how is the Lady Mormont holding up?"

"She felled a tree with her mace last night in anger, and would've kept going had it not been for the Smalljon," Arya answered plainly.

"I see," Gendry said, shaking his head, "I can only imagine what it would feel like to lose a brother after a night like that one."

"Yeah," Arya said in agreement, "but, there's only so much that we can do now. And with Blood Bear gone, it's going to be harder for us to get Sansa back."

Nodding, Gendry said, "a lot of things are going to get a lot harder for us now that things have been going bad."

"I'm sure that the Dornish will help some of the way," Arya said, "I heard them talking last night, Robb and the Red Viper, and it sounded as though they came to an agreement."

"What kind of agreement?" Gendry asked.

"Ten thousand Dornish troops to cross the border by the time Oberyn returns to lead them into the Reach," Arya answered, "from there, it will be a battle on two fronts for the Reach men and with any luck, my brother's plan will work."

"Don't you mean Joran's plan," Gendry said in a matter of fact way, "it was him who suggested attacking the supply trains in the first place."

"Shut up," Arya said in frustration, "I know that, I'm just saying that times just might be easier now that we have someone on our side."

"For how long though," Gendry said in earnest, "if the Freys were capable of doing damage to us the other night, what's to stop the Dornish from doing the same?"

"The oath my brother has with them," Arya said in answer.

"Well let's just hope that he keeps this one," Gendry said nonchalantly, "cause if anything about the Dornish is true, they won't worry about stabbing us when they could just poison us."

"You don't think my brother will hold to his word do you?"

"I'm only thinking as Joran would think alright," Gendry said honestly, "if he had made the deal, I'd feel rather hopeful about our allies. I think your brother's learned his lesson and all about oath breaking, but what would stop him from breaking our ties with the Dornish?"

"My sister for one," Arya said, slugging Gendry in the arm angrily.

"Ok, ok," Gendry said, raising his hands in defense of the girl's punches, which hurt but he would never let her know they did.

"Are you hungry," Arya asked, getting up from her spot on the bed.

"I could use something to eat, yeah," Gendry answered with a nod.

"Alright, I'll see what I can find from the rations that we have with the army, and I'll be back to keep you company," Arya said with a small smile.

"The company would be nice," Gendry said kindly, "thank you."

"You can thank me when we have some food," Arya said, leaving Gendry alone again.

"Huh," Gendry said to himself once Arya's footsteps faded away down the hallway, continuing with "you're only a bastard Gendry, you can only be her friend for so long. And if you're not careful, her brother will just have to remind you of your place."

…

Tyrion

Sitting at the head of the table within the Small Council chambers, Tyrion, scarred and tired with said Small Council, Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle, and Mace Tyrell all gathered with his sister and her son as well, read the letter from Walder Rivers in his hand that told him about the news concerning their enemies recent turn of events at the Twins.

 _So, it would seem that someone has gone behind my back to deal a blow to the enemy,_ Tyrion could think of a few that were sitting in that same room.

Placing the letter calmly upon the table, Tyrion looked towards Cersei, appearing smug as ever after having read the parchment before him, and said, "are you happy, with the fact that this little tragedy has your name written all over it?"

"My name," Cersei said coldly, "I had nothing to do with it."

"I bet you didn't," Tyrion said, looking back down at the letter and playing with it nonchalantly, "out of either of us here, you had the most intention of assigning out this despicable task, and it would seem, somehow, you found the perfect scapegoat to do it. Or scapegoats I should say in this case."

"What are you complaining about," Cersei said, her eyes hardening towards him, "this is a great victory for our side if you haven't noticed."

"A victory that will be marked as a disgusting tragedy that had our House's hands all over it for generations," Tyrion said angrily, "and I highly doubt you can call this a victory, considering the fact that Robb Stark, among many others are still alive."

"We've dealt with the Young Wolf's bitch mother at least," Joffrey said smugly, his arms folded across his thin chest, "and from what casualties his army has suffered, I highly doubt he'll come further south any time soon."

"That's not the point," Tyrion said, glaring daggers at his smiling nephew, "do you fail to realize that now that this has happened, we look more the villains than anyone else in this war."

"That doesn't matter," Cersei interrupted him, "let the people believe what they will of us, we have the army, we have the supplies, and we have the True King to lead us on to victory now that Stannis has been humiliated and Robb Stark's forces have been beaten for the first time since this war started. And now, we even have Blood Bear in our grasp, and he shall be a prize worth much more to the northerners when they realize we have him."

"Was it all just about Joran Mormont, sister," Tyrion asked, "was this entire plot, just to get him into your claws. Because if it was, let me tell you something of note. Bargaining him for Jaimie, or even father for that matter, won't work. The best that could come from us having him is the morale of the enemy, which may turn worse towards us when they hear we have him."

"The best will come of it in due time," Cersei said, her emerald eyes gleaming dangerously when Tyrion said 'sister,' "and I don't expect him to be a bargaining chip, but rather an example to all traitors who would defy us."

"If you mean to publicly execute him your Grace," Varys spoke up, "I would highly advise it. Considering how during the course of the war, the commoners have found a heroic symbol in the sight of Joran Mormont and it wouldn't help the public image if we were to harm him thus."

"What do you mean," Tyrion asked, wondering how else the Blood Bear has attempted to make more enemies for the Crown.

"My little birds have whispered to me that, Joran Mormont has made an example of his own charity to a family who had left well before the siege," Varys answered, "and upon receiving his care, they have written back to their kin here in the city, declaring to the public that Blood Bear wasn't as savage as they were meant to believe."

"Who cares what those who live in mud and shit think," Joffrey said irritably, "it's Margaery they should be praising not him."

"There has actually sprung up two factions among the common, your Grace," Varys pointed out, "those that Margaery has helped so far have only been a half of the city, whereas those who think that Joran would be an even more charitable person than her, are the other half."

"We should route out those traitors then and crush them publicly," Joffrey said, almost as if he was commanding it.

"The moment we start killing commoners again," Tyrion brought up, "is the moment the riots begin again, after we have had such an easier time without them. And we wouldn't want another cow pie thrown at you now would we your Grace."

That shutting Joffrey up, enabled the Council to continue.

"Still though," Varys said, "it could be dangerous to have him in King's Landing. Were we to even attempt to show him publicly would be damaging us to the eyes of the public."

"Yes," Tyrion said in agreement, "have word sent out to Walder Rivers to have Joran Mormont delivered at dusk to the city. If Blood Bear is seen in the streets, who knows what could happen."

"No," Joffrey said in disagreement, "we parade him about like the rebellious criminal he is and we show our strength to the common."

"Our strength," Tyrion said in disbelief, "you do realize that the only strength we have is what the Tyrells give us. The Crownland's should have their own standing army to show our strength. Do you realize how bad it will look for you if you use what your bride has given you to flaunt a prisoner around openly? Or do you not care about how you look?"

Seeing that Joffrey was seething in anger, Tyrion listened as Joffrey spat out, "I am the King, and I shall have it done my way!"

"Any King who has to remind himself that he is the King, isn't a true King," Tyrion said, coming dangerously close to slapping his nephew, "and your way is never going to be the 'right' way of doing things, until you start acting and thinking like a king. Something that someone should have taught you long ago, but it seems that due to the poor teachers you've had, you didn't."

"We don't have to sit here and listen to this filth," Cersei hissed at the Hand before leading Joffrey away and out of the Small Council chamber.

"Why don't you follow her out Pycelle," Tyrion ordered the Grand Maester, "after all, she's taking your sagging balls with her."

Huffing at the remark, an insulted Pycelle exited the Small Council chambers in speedy course for his age.

"I must take my leave as well Lord Hand," Varys said, "I must make preparations for when our guest arrives."

Placing his scarred face into a hand, Tyrion nodded for Varys to leave, which the eunuch did in his own time, leaving the Hand and Littlefinger alone.

Considering how Baelish hadn't said a word the entire council meeting, Tyrion asked him, "why so quiet Littlefinger, surely you have something to say considering the fact that we are about to have a war criminal coming."

"A war criminal that was saved from death, while someone I cared about took his place," Littlefinger said icily, his eyes glistening with hidden tears.

 _He means Catelyn Stark,_ Tyrion thought obviously.

"I am sorry," Tyrion said in earnest, "for what you've lost, I know how it feels to lose someone that you care about, but, had it not been for my sister, that person would still be alive."

Rising from his seat angrily, knocking the chair over in the process, Littlefinger looked at Tyrion and said, "you're wrong, Tyrion, had it not been for the person your sister had confided in, then that person would be."

The pieces of the puzzle coming together in that moment, Tyrion, shocked, said, "it was you, wasn't it? The one my sister commanded to carry out her plans?"

Smiling sadly, Baelish said, "orders that I regret ever hearing with all my heart."

And with that, Littlefinger left, and Tyrion was left alone, not knowing what the other man intended to do to himself until later that evening, when guards had found Baelish's body on the street, his skull broken from jumping out of the Red Keep in suicide. Killing himself, for what he had done.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 16: Into the Snake Pit

 **Hello my avid Fanfiction readers and welcome back to another chapter. I love your reviews, I love the support, glad I'm getting a positive majority along with some ideas on how to go about the next couple chapters, it just makes me want to keep typing and thinking. Now, depending on how this next one goes for myself, I think I might just announce a pairing for our Joran Mormont. Granted, it is a hard choice and a long shot to decide who would be better for Joran, so I put it into a Poll concerning likely choices for our hero. NO, there is no Ironborn or Wildlings, Joran's been killing them both for years so it would be an extreme longshot to even consider pairing him with either peoples, so if you don't like my opinion on that, well, sorry. But, anyway enough about pairings and all the mushy stuff, on with the story. NOTE: I own nothing Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, everything belongs to George RR Martin.**

Joran

Underneath the trees of Bear Island's forests on a warm summers day that hadn't been seen in the north for years, Joran Mormont lounged on the earth palisade outside of Mormont Keep in simple clothing basking in the warmth of the sunlight, with not a care in the world.

It was peaceful on Bear Island, peace that Joran hadn't seen since he was a child and his uncle Jeor was still the lord of the Island. There were no messengers interrupting his relaxation with news of beacons being lit in the north or southern half of his holdings. Life was simple now, and Joran couldn't remember how it got that way.

Opening his eyes, Joran looked up to the blue skies above him, and then leaning up to a sitting position, he took in his surroundings.

Birds were flying overhead, there was a cool breeze from the sea passing over the Island, and it was warm enough that no one had to wear any furs when roaming around outside.

His gaze landing on Mormont Keep, Joran took in the sight of his younger sisters playing tag, his older sister Dacey holding a baby while Smalljon Umber chopped up firewood to help fuel the fire for lunch and suppertime, and his mother Maege looking on her children while running an oiled cloth over her mace.

Joran couldn't remember the last time he had felt this happy, this at peace with his life.

In fact, he couldn't remember how he got home either, or how the last winter had been.

" _You can't remember because you are on the edge of death,"_ a man's voice said from behind Joran.

Looking over his shoulder, Joran turned to face whoever had spoken to him.

" _No, over here,"_ the voice said again to his right.

Looking right, Joran still didn't see anyone there.

" _Above you,"_ the voice said, the sound coming from the air.

Turning his attention up, Joran beheld a raven flying over him, and a talking raven at that.

"Where did you come from," Joran asked, looking quizzically at the bird as it came to a landing in front of him and finding the creature had a third eye.

" _I came from nowhere, somewhere, and everywhere,"_ the raven said as it hopped up and down on the earth, " _it doesn't matter where I came from though, what matters is you and what_ you _are doing here."_

"I'm, home," Joran said, feeling as though he wasn't supposed to be there, "where else would I be?"

" _You are not home, Joran Mormont,"_ the Raven said, hopping closer to Joran, " _you are only in an illusion that looks like heaven to you, and to you, your home is heaven."_

"Wait," Joran said, running a hand through his long hair in thought, "did you say that, I'm on the edge of death?"

Nodding, the three eyed raven said, " _aye, I did."_

"But…how," Joran said in disbelief, gesturing to his surroundings, "everything looks so, alive here?"

" _Even in death, there is deception my good man,"_ the Raven seemed to caw at him, " _all that you see now, is an illusion, things that you want to see before you are on the other side."_

"What is on the other side?"

" _Oh, there are good things there,"_ the Raven said before ruffling his feathers, " _things that the beholder wishes to see, a heaven. And then there are bad things, things that will mirror all of the beholder's wrongdoings in life, a hell."_

"I thought that there wasn't a hell in the teachings of the Old Ways," Joran said in confusion.

" _Oh, there is a hell Joran,"_ the Raven said, " _just like the Gods of your homeland though, it is nameless, as is the heaven."_

"Which one will I go to?" Joran had to ask that question, considering where he was at the moment.

" _That depends on how you live the rest of your life,"_ the Raven said, " _do not believe that your time has already come, Joran, for you still have much to do before the end comes for you."_

"Like what," Joran asked.

" _Simple,"_ the Raven said before a flash of white invaded Joran's vision, causing him to cover his eyes.

Feeling a cold wind pick up and snow fall upon his body, Joran opened his eyes to find Mormont Keep and Bear Island gone, a white winter wasteland in their place.

Standing up from his sitting position upon the ground, Joran looked this way and that for any sign of life in the area, only to find that he was the only living thing there.

At least, until the Raven showed up again, flying above him.

" _Witness now a terror that has not been seen since ancient times,"_ the Raven shouted above the wind, " _a Night that will swallow the dawn and all life with it."_

Not understanding what the three eyed Raven was telling him, Joran began to think of what it meant until his thoughts were interrupted by a scream and the wailing of a baby.

Turning towards the noise, Joran saw something that took his breath away.

It was Dacey, holding her crying baby in her arms, and Smalljon, sword in hand, facing down what looked to be corpses moving towards them.

Joran couldn't believe what he was seeing. Things that should be dead and buried were walking, moving towards the living with emotionless masks of death upon their decayed bodies. All of them though bore weapons, and all of them pointed at the living.

Without a second thought, Joran ran towards his sister and his friend to try and help them.

But, the wind and snow berating him every step of the way, Joran couldn't go any faster and he could only watch as events unfolded.

Smalljon fought off the undead with all the strength his arms had to give him. Corpses were broken and shattered by the force of his blows. And Joran believed that the large man could hold off long enough for him to get there.

But, then there came a being just as tall as Smalljon, holding a blade that appeared to be made of ice.

With a single swing of its blade, the creature shattered Smalljon's sword, and with another swing, it ended the man's life.

Realizing what was about to happen next, Joran ran harder, his legs sinking into the cold snow that was deep enough that it rose up past his knees, making him wade through it and causing the trek through the land to slow him down.

The creature, its eyes upon Dacey and her baby, moved towards them both, and Joran, getting no closer to his sister and her child, was forced to watch as the monster attacked them.

Just as it had done to Smalljon, with one swing of its blade, the blue eyed creature removed Dacey's head from her shoulders, and after her body fell, it then took the wailing child from its mother's dead arms.

The snow now up to his waste, Joran was forced to claw his way towards the monster through the snow.

His rage at its height, Joran clawed and clawed through the snow as hard as he could, feeling the ground disappear out from under him as he went.

Pretty soon, Joran was neck deep in snow, watching as the murderous demon disappeared into the storm with the baby.

And then, it was gone.

"No," Joran bellowed as he felt himself fall through the snow down into darkness.

…

Now, among roots and dirt in a cavern that was large enough for him to stand in, his body wet from melted snow and his own sweat, Joran looked around to find the Raven perched upon a root that curved upward towards the roof of the cavern.

" _Not a pretty future, is it?"_ the Raven cawed.

"What, in all hells was that thing," Joran said, huffing out the words angrily.

" _That, is something that man hasn't seen in eight thousand years,"_ the Raven said, its head twitching this way and that, " _something that has ever since those dark and evil times, been dismissed as stories and fairy tale."_

Realization unfolding in his mind, Joran sighed, "the blue eyes, the sword of ice, the dead walking, that was a White Walker, wasn't it?"

The Raven only nodded in answer.

"How could they have come back, and why?" Joran felt the need to know the reason for their return and he hoped that the Raven would give him that answer.

" _For thousands of years, they have been sleeping, not dead,"_ the Raven began to answer, " _it doesn't matter though, the question is not how, but why they are back. And more importantly, how to stop them."_

"You, mean you don't know how to beat them," Joran asked, bewildered at the thought that he was actually talking to a bird on how to beet an evil that came with winter.

" _I never said I didn't,"_ the Raven said darkly before continuing, " _there is a child, a woman by this time, that was born of summer, a summer child. A woman who will bear a child, should it survive, it will bring about the downfall of the Others as well as their demise, to bring forth a summer that never ends and the return of the Old Ways. That child, is your son, Joran."_

"I have no wife," Joran said blatantly, raising his hands as though in defeat, "I have no means to marry anytime soon, and if I'm dead, what chance will there be the child will ever be born?"

" _Do not think you are so easily killed, Blood Bear,"_ the Raven said almost in a chuckle, _"granted you are only a mortal man, you still have weapons that can withstand this winters might."_

"Weapons?" Joran was bewildered by what the Raven was saying, "what weapons?"

Before the three eyed Raven could answer, a flash of light dominated Joran's vision, and brought him to life.

…

"He's still alive," a man's voice called from above Joran, who was laying on what felt like the ground.

Opening his eyes, Joran, still wearing the clothes he had put on for the wedding, wounded with a massive headache piercing his brain, looked around where he was.

He was in a forested area in the middle of the night, not Bear Island during the day. There was the sound of a creek somewhere over to his left, and looking over to his right, Mormont beheld a road that was clear of any travelers, if any traveled it at all, illuminated by a small fire that was in the center of what looked like a camp. All in all, Joran didn't know where he was.

"Good, that makes the bounty double than what it would've been, if he had died on the way," another voice answered the first, a voice that had sounded strangely familiar to Joran.

Attempting to move, Joran heard the rattle of chains and felt the cuffs that connected them to his wrists. The chains that held his wrists were connected to one chain that lead all the way down to his ankles, which had cuffs upon them that connected both of them to each other. It was a common cuffed contraption that limited the person wearing it the ability to move freely.

"Gave us quite a scare after we dragged you out of the Twins," the same voice continued.

Looking towards the voice, Joran beheld Black Walder, the bastard son of Walder Frey with two other men standing beside him.

"My colleagues here believed you wouldn't've lasted the trip south," Black Walder continued, "granted, we did lose three others trying to escape the battle with you unnoticed, so I suppose that their fears were warranted."

"Where…am I," Joran asked, attempting to sit up, only to feel a sharp pain in his torso and back that forced him to remain still.

"You my friend, are in the Crownlands," Walder Rivers answered, walking over to stand over Joran's prone body, "you've been out for a good four days since the Red Wedding, luckily though, you're as strong as you look."

"Take off these cuffs and I'll show you just how strong I really am," Joran said before he was cut off by Black Walder's foot upon his leg, the leg that had been shot with a crossbow bolt nights prior.

"Nah," Black Walder said, twisting his foot this way and that, eliciting a grunt of pain from Joran, "I think you look better with them on. The mighty Blood Bear, taken captive by a bastard of the Riverlands and put in chains for the Boy King Joffrey. Sound like it would make a good story don't you think?"

"It's a shame that you won't be around long enough to hear it told," Joran growled.

"I don't think you are in any kind of position to be threatening anybody, my Lord Mormont," Walder Rivers said before pressing down on Joran's wound for good measure, "once we are in King's Landing, and in service to the Iron Throne, my tale will be told in reverence by all of the lords and ladies there."

When Joran felt Black Walder's boot get off of his wound, he said to the bastard, "you're mistaken if you think that Joffrey, or the Queen will even bother with you after we get there. The moment I get into their hands, is the moment that you lose your lives. That, I can promise you."

"We'll see," Black Walder said, stepping away from Joran back over to the fire where there was food, "but I'd be more worried about what you'll be losing the moment they have you, Blood Bear."

…

After a night of unrestful sleep, after he was gagged and placed uncomfortably upon a cart drawn by a horse under the direction of Black Walder and his men, Joran and his jailors continued in their journey towards the capitol that morning.

Unable to see where they were going with a blanket over his face, Joran could only feel the bumps that came with the road and hear the many different sounds of people and animals that traveled it.

Hearing everything from cows to chickens, horses to donkeys, and parents to children to keep him entertained, Joran wondered how much longer it would be before they were within the walls of King's Landing.

Seeing the sun rise to its peak in the sky through the blanket that was laid over his body, Joran's answer was given to him when he began to hear a rise in the number of people upon the road that they were traveling.

There was the sound of merchants trying to sell their wares outside of the walls, there was the sound of whores in the street asking the Freys if they wanted a quick rump on the roadside, and then there was the sound of the voices of Gold Cloaks asking for Black Walder's business within King's Landing.

"We have a delivery for his majesty the King," Joran heard Walder Rivers say confidently to the guard.

"We'll be the judge of that," one of the Gold Cloaks said before Joran felt a hand take hold of the blanket and lift it up, exposing Mormont to the light of day.

"All seems to be in order," the man said after a good look at what had been underneath the blanket before replacing it over Joran and returning to his post, ordered Black Walder to move on.

Feeling the cart continue in its track, Joran then began to feel the many bumps of the stone streets of King's Landing under the cart, causing it to rattle underneath his form.

As the cart went this way and that throughout the hustle and bustle of the lower part of the city, Joran could smell everything that polluted the air of the place, shit, piss, and death. Merchants shouted their wares towards the new coming Freys, whores were heard approaching the cart to offer their bodies to the men, and beggars did the only thing they could as the men with the cart passed them, which was beg. Watching through the blanket on top of him as the sun began to wane in the sky to past noon, Joran began to hear less and less of the noises of the city, though the smell continued to pollute his nostrils.

The sun was well past when they had finally come to another stop.

"What business do you have here," a gruff voice asked the Frey men.

"We have a prize that their Majesties would appreciate very much," Black Walder answered, "a prize that has caused them many a headache these passed months that they no longer need to worry about."

"Really," the same voice said in reply.

Listening to the heavy steps of the speaker as it approached the cart, Joran heard what the man was wearing move as he went, it was plate mail.

Then, the blanket came off of his face and Joran beheld a man fully dressed in golden armor wearing a white cloak upon his shoulders.

It was a Kingsguard.

Leaving the blanket off of Joran's face, the Kingsguard nodded in the direction of Black Walder saying, "this _is_ quite the prize, I shall be sure to present this to their Majesties immediately."

"I would rather prefer, if it were I who presented this gift to the King and Queen Regent," Walder Rivers said calmly, "considering how I was the one who brought him here in the first place, I believe it fitting that it should be me who presents Blood Bear to King Joffrey. Not to mention how, I need to discuss with him, the _reward_ that shall be coming with the man's head."

"Reward you say, eh?" the Kingsguard said, chuckling as he spoke again towards a few others that Joran couldn't see, "kill them."

And then, Joran listened as the Frey men were slaughtered where they stood, and before he could attempt to do anything, he was met with a gauntleted fist to his face.

His mind flashing in and out of consciousness, Joran could feel himself being hauled out of the cart, much to the chagrin of the Gold Cloaks that were handling him.

"By the Seven," one of them said, "this fucker's heavy."

"Quit your grumbling," the voice of the Kingsguard sounded from behind them, "he won't be so heavy for long if King Joffrey has his way with him."

Hearing laughter coming from the men on either side of him, Joran's mind flashed into darkness.

When he reopened his eyes, Joran felt his feet being dragged over stone, the chains upon his body jingling as they made contact with the floor, and he could see that he was being pulled through stone hallways with torches to light the way for any who traveled that way.

"Gods," one of the guards holding on to him said, "I hate fucking coming down here. The Black Cells are said to be the eighth floor above the Seven Hells."

"Eh, that's just religious superstition," the man's companion said in dismissal, "the only thing that you should hate about coming down here is the fact that we have to climb down stairs to bring this heavy sack of shit down to the third level."

"Not the fourth," the first guard asked.

"No, you damn dolt," his companion answered, "those cells don't come until later, when our Grace, King Joffrey has a mind to come and visit the man personally."

Then, Joran lost consciousness again, this time around, images of his family and home flashed in and out of his mind, causing him to believe that he would never see either of them again.

Joran's eyes shot open again when he felt his feet hitting stone steps that led down, the torches there the only light, however dim, showed his captors the way.

At least, until the torches ended, and there was no light, save for one that was behind them.

"We're on the third level now," a new voice said gruffly from behind, Joran presumed it was the gaoler and the light was a torch that the man had brought to light the way for the Gold Cloaks.

Then, Joran felt flat ground under his feet, presuming the ground to be the third level where the Black Cells were.

Watching as the gaoler stepped around the Gold Cloaks, his light moving with him, Joran saw the man bring up a menagerie of keys, and before long, the cell door that the man was in front of was opened.

Dragged towards the door, Joran felt his body fly through the air before hitting the cold stone earth of the cell that the Gold Cloaks had thrown him into.

The air knocked out of his lungs from the impact, Joran rolled over to his back to try and regain his breath, forced to watch as his only way out was closed shut and locked. The light that had illuminated the cell, now only able to show through the cracks of the door, began to fade as the three men began to make their way back up the stairs of the dungeons of the Red Keep. Leaving Joran alone in darkness.

Rising to a sitting position, Joran crawled backwards, his chains rattling as he went across the stone floor of his prison until his back hit a wall.

Leaning against the wall, Joran then brought his feet under him and using his back to crawl up the wall, pain shooting through his bodies wounds as he went, brought himself to a standing position in his cell.

Holding his hands out in front of him to feel around the pitch black area, Joran walked around the area of the cell to find the perimeter of the place.

Coming into contact with another wall, Joran then followed the wall around until he hit the place where the door was and continuing on from there, he moved on to find his way back to the rear of the cell where he had started.

The cell was square, empty, and black.

The only way out for Joran would have to be the door, considering the fact that the stones in the walls there wouldn't budge, no matter how hard he tried to push, scrap or pull at them.

Returning to his sitting position facing the door, Joran took a deep breath and thought to himself, _well, at least it's not the fourth level, that's a start._

Getting comfortable against the cold stone of the wall, Joran figured that if he was going to be a prisoner he would set an example of fortitude that the southern King hadn't seen before in his enemies and fell asleep.

…

Awakening to the sound of his cell door opening, Joran shielded his eyes from the light of the torch that came with the man who entered.

Blinking his eyes furiously so as to adjust to the brightness that showed off of the torch, Joran eyes soon came to discern the shape of the man who was in front of him.

It looked to be the gaoler, a round man dressed in rough leather and a cap upon his head, holding his torch in one hand and a tray of food in the other.

"I figured that you'd be hungry by now," the gaoler said, his voice sounding strangely different to Joran, not the gruff voice he had heard earlier, but the kind of voice that sounded, strangely feminine, "forgive me if it isn't as much as you are used to eating, a man of your size and all, but, it will have to do for now."

As the gaoler came closer, Joran eyeballed him suspiciously, wondering if the man was sent down here with food to poison him.

Setting the food of tray down in front of Joran, the gaoler, after removing the gag from Joran's mouth, then produced a water skin from his belt and presented it to Mormont, who only refused to accept it.

"Don't trust me?" the gaoler said with a shrug, "I suppose it is to be expected, considering how you are a prisoner of war. But, let me assure you, I mean you no harm. Look."

The man then uncorked the water skin and sipped a mouthful from it, giving Joran the impression that it wasn't poison.

Accepting the water skin after the man had swallowed, Joran then watched as the gaoler took some of the food, some bread, slices of cheese, and small slices of ham, eating each of them in turn to show him good faith with the meal.

Sipping from the water skin, Joran felt the cool liquid run down his parched throat, bringing an end to the thirst that he had been forced to endure with the Freys on his way to the city and during the venture through it.

"Thank you," Joran croaked, before coughing to clear his throat.

"You are welcome, Lord Mormont," the gaoler said, presenting the tray of food to Joran, who took it appreciatively.

Before he took a bite of food, Joran asked the gaoler, "who are you? And why are you doing this for me?"

Seeing a small smile come to the round man's face through the light, Joran listened as he answered.

"I am actually an admirer of yours, Lord Mormont," the gaoler said plainly, "and I have been for quite some time, my interest in you began the moment that you became the protector of Bear Island in fact."

"Your name," Joran asked suspiciously, wandering what a simple gaoler for the Red Keep would know about him and what he's done.

"A man can learn much from a name," the gaoler said simply, before actually answering, "so, I shall see what you can figure out of my identity if I give you a name people call me."

"And that name would be?"

"They call me, the Spider," the gaoler said in a hushed voice, as if the walls had ears of their own.

Nodding, Joran, placing a piece of ham inside his mouth and chewing the meat slowly to savor the flavor, had indeed heard of that name before, many times in fact during his lifetime.

"You are Varys," Joran said plainly, rather surprised that the man would even bother with him in the first place, he continued, "the Master of Whisperers."

"Quite the learned man, aren't you, Joran," Varys said, his smile growing, "I figured as much after I had heard of what happened upon the Gold Road. But then again, that wasn't so much as brilliance as it was gambling in my opinion."

"What would a master of secrets know about gambling," Joran said.

"Only the gambling of secrets themselves, my Lord Mormont," Varys said with a shrug, "in exchange for loyalty so to say, a lord is gambling to let those loyal to him know a few of such secrets."

"Then we are both gamblers then," Joran said smartly, figuring that the Master of Whisperers said some truth when it came to his profession.

"Each in our own way I suppose," Varys said, nodding in some agreement.

"Then you should know," Joran said, leaning closer to the Spider in his sitting position, "that I only gamble when I know that the odds are in my favor."

As Joran then continued to eat while Varys spoke, "it's a shame that, not all the odds of late have been in such a kind mood towards you, Joran Mormont."

Nodding in agreement, Joran with a piece of bread in his mouth said, "aye, the fates almost sent me to my grave five nights ago. But then again, they didn't, and I'm still alive."

"For now," Varys said darkly.

"Why's that," Joran said questioningly, before sipping some more water.

"Let's just say that, your chain of victories upon the field of battle has caused insult after insult to the King and Queen Regent," Varys put it simply, "and now, you are in the jaws of the lions here in King's Landing who could order your execution in an instant if they so wished."

"Then why am I not dead yet?" Joran asked.

"Well, you are a prize that his Majesty the King wishes to show off for as long as he can before he takes your life," Varys answered, "and once he has had his fill of violence towards you, he will then kill you in one way or the other I suppose."

"Why tell me all of this," Joran asked, wondering what the Spider would gain from even speaking with him, "why feed me and provide me with water and nourishment, when we both know that your young King intends for me to starve down here, to give him a better chance of breaking me before a crowd of his followers?"

"Hm, you've proven to be…worth, the small trouble, Joran Mormont," Varys said.

"How so," Joran asked, placing the last pieces of bread, cheese, and ham in his mouth.

"There is a certain level of respect that one earns for his deeds, whether bad or good, it goes both ways," Varys said plainly before standing up, "and coincidentally, you've earned mine from yours."

"I've done nothing that I haven't believed to be the right thing to do," Joran said, handing Varys the empty plate and water skin.

"I know," Varys said, accepting the objects, "and all in all, my little birds have told me much about your kindness and your passion for the downtrodden. Honestly, I'm impressed."

"Well," Joran thought about asking Varys if he would free him, but, thinking better of it, he didn't, "I don't know anything about secrets and birds, but, thank you for your respect and this visit, I hope to keep speaking with you in the future."

"You are welcome, and don't worry," Varys said, turning from Joran and moving back to the door before facing him again, "this isn't the last time we will be speaking you and I."

Then, with that, Vary the Spider left Joran Blood Bear back in darkness.

…

Awakening again to torchlight, Joran beheld not one man, but three entering his cell.

It was a different gaoler and they were different Gold Cloaks no doubt sent to fetch him for the court of Joffrey Lannister.

Hauled to his feet roughly, Joran was then half carried and half dragged out of his cell by the guards with the gaoler leading them up and out of the third level of the Black Cells.

When they had reached the top of the staircase, Joran was mercilessly blinded by the brightness of the day that erupted from the windows on either side of the hallway that led out of the dungeons of the Red Keep.

After they were out the door to the dungeons, with the gaoler left to mind his post at the door, Joran and the Gold Cloaks made the rest of the way to their destination without need of a torch to light the way.

Making their way through the many hallways and passages of the Red Keep, the three men soon found themselves before a rather tall doorway with a very tall door that had been opened for easy access to all those who Joran saw were already in attendance before the Boy King Joffrey.

Looking at the crowd before him and the Gold Cloaks, Joran wasn't surprised to see all of the many men and women there wearing the fineries that they believed they disserved due to their status, family name, or otherwise.

Then, as his chaperones carried him through the arch of the doorway, Joran watched as all of the southerners' present made way for him, all of their eyes looking upon him with a menagerie of emotions, the most common of them being anger, outrage, scorn, disdain, disgust and his favorite, fear.

"My Lords and Ladies," an unseen herald called out to all in the room to announce the presence of Joran to the world, "Joran Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, enemy to the Crown and traitor to his majesty, King Joffrey."

 _Almost has a nice ring to it,_ Joran thought to himself, still feeling the eyes of the cuckolds present upon his back and now hearing the faint whispers they produced at the mention of his name.

Finally reaching the end of the crowd of court, Joran and the guards broke away from the many onlookers they had passed and stopping in the space between them and the dais where the Iron Throne stood, looked upon the royals before them and the line of Kingsguard that acted as the shield of the throne.

Looking the dais from right to left, Joran marked each face there.

On the far right of the throne, sat an old man whose hair was as white as snow with a beard that had the appearance of being cropped rather poorly, upon his neck was a chain of many metals linked together, forcing the man to even bend at the neck sitting down from the weight of all of the links bestowed upon him by the Maesters of the Citadel.

Joran surmised that the old man was Grand Maester Pycelle.

Next to the Grand Maester, now dressed in silk rather than rough leather, his bald head bare of the cap he had worn the night prior and looking rather innocent for his occupation, was Varys the Master of Whisperers.

Unsurprised that he would see the Spider so soon after their first meeting, Joran's gaze moved on to the next man present next to the dais of the Iron Throne.

But, to Joran's credit, it wasn't a man who stood next to Varys, but the half man himself, Tyrion Lannister.

His blonde hair falling to his small shoulders, a scar running diagonally across his face from a sword stroke or something of the like, Tyrion Lannister, as small as he was, looked like the kind of man that could topple men twice his size without so much as a flick of his fingers.

Joran believed that, under different circumstances, he and Tyrion could've been good friends.

Beside Tyrion, stood a rugged looking man dressed in a boiled leather vest, his hands laying lazily upon the hilt of the longsword upon his belt as he looked upon the proceedings.

If Joran had a name, he could try to put it to the face, sadly, he didn't know who it was.

But, he did know the person who sat closest to the Throne, Cersei Lannister.

Dressed in the colors of her father's house rather than her late husbands, her blonde hair running down her shoulders freely, the Queen Regent adorned a red dress that presented her form perfectly to the many spectators present in the court, some of the dress holding pieces of metal in it as though it were armor.

Looking at the woman, her piercing emerald eyes and cold mask of anger directed right at him, Joran could see a beauty that in the woman's youth, had been unrivaled. Now however, there was less of that beauty left before Mormont.

And then, there sat the crowning achievement of House Lannister, the lie that now sat upon a throne next to its mother, the abomination that was Joffrey Lannister.

Leaning forward upon his high seat, the Boy King, holding a sword that appeared new and untested, looked down upon Joran with a mask of anger that didn't fail to hide what the man saw in the boy's eyes: a childish fear at the mere sight of him.

The stories about the boy being true, Joran saw a kind of resemblance in the boy that he could only remember ever seeing in the boy's father, Jaime Lannister. Blonde hair, green eyes, Joffrey looked to be rather small for his age. And, if Joran didn't know any better, the boy had the appearance of a girl rather than a man.

But then again, Joran had to remember what part of Westeros he was in.

Moving his eyes away from the Boy King, Joran then looked to the tall figure that stood beside the Iron Throne.

Due to his ruff exterior and the memorable burn scar that ran down the side of his face and head, along with the vague family resemblance to the man that he had personally slain a month ago, Joran surmised that next to Joffrey was Sandor Clegane, the Hound.

Figuring that there were no stories of real love between the Clegane siblings, Joran wandered if he could use Sandor for his own ends in the future, however small they were.

Leaving those thoughts behind with the man, Joran's eyes continued to the right of the throne, where stood three that appeared the very much alike in their appearances, as well as the southern political style of fashion.

They were two men and a young woman.

One of the men, young though sturdy underneath his armor that had roses carved into the breastplate, Joran figured to be Ser Loras Tyrell.

If Joran hadn't known that Loras was a man, he could've mistaken him for a woman with how pretty he looked in his shining armor.

Next to him, was no doubt Loras's father, Mace Tyrell. Fat and balding, wearing enough silk that could've been used for a blanket, the man appeared to represent everything that the North believed made the southerners weaker than them. As for Joran, he believed it doubly so.

And the last of the line of the royal procession, the young woman whom Joran came to the conclusion of being the fair Margaery Tyrell.

As beautiful as the tales told of her, her doe like eyes and heart shaped face looking upon Joran not out of fear or anger, but rather pity.

The girl didn't appear to have a single bone of malice in her body, covered over so well by a fine dress of green silk that, had Joran been born a southerner, would've been known to have been costly to do.

With all of the enemy there before him, Joran almost felt honored that they had all come on his behalf, even though they were going to look upon him only briefly before sending him back to his cell.

"So this is the infamous Blood Bear that we have heard so much about," Joffrey said snidely, "he looks like a bear to me, shame though that he isn't bloody."

The guards that had escorted him moving back to the front of the crowd, Joran, looking over each shoulder to make sure that they weren't too close to him before he said what he meant to, spoke.

"And it is safe to say that, you are the infamous Boy King that I have fought so hard to get to," Joran's words were firm and to all those present, he hoped them to be frightening, "not some imposter that is filling in for him to talk to me?"

"I do not need an imposter to speak to the likes of you, Mormont," Joffrey said sharply, "your nothing but a Wildling that doesn't know his place, in the mud of your homeland is where you belong, with your head buried in the snow."

"Hm," Joran kept his calm composure, nodding and looking around as if the words didn't interest or mark him in the slightest, "where I come from. Where I come from, I've killed many Wildlings. Not just Wildlings, Ironborn also. If I look like a Wildling at present, I will not apologize for how it makes you feel. Uncomfortable, frightened, scared."

"Scared," Joffrey said, the outrage dripping from the very word which brought Joran to continue.

"I would understand, given our current positions." Joran's confident tone and voice was the only thing that rang throughout the throne room in front of all present, "I, chained, dirty, hungry and thirsty, like the wild beast that you have all marked me out to be. You, a sword in your hand to compensate for the one you lack in between your legs, clean, well fed, and nourished by the milk your mother must give you every night before going to sleep. It's alright if you're scared of me, you wouldn't be the first child that mothers have warned about me."

The gasps of shock and whispers of outrage bringing music to Joran's ears, Mormont ignored all of the collected voices behind him and kept his gaze fixed upon Joffrey, seething in anger at the words of one man.

"I'm not scared of you," Joffrey said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, of course not," Joran said, smiling hardily as though he was among his friends back in Bear Island as he gestured to each Gold Cloak and Kingsguard around him, "with all of these swords around you, these, _fine_ warriors and soldiers here to protect you, who wouldn't feel safe, what would be the need to be scared of anyone."

Then, his tone changing, Joran continued to speak, only this time, instead of kindly, he spoke as if in challenge, "in fact, if you are as brave as you say to be, then why not just fight me and tell all of your many, protectors, to scamper off somewhere and you can prove just how courageous you really are. You have the sword; you must have the strength to use it. I don't even have my hands to defend myself while in these shackles, so, what's to stop you from killing me where I stand yourself."

"I have a mind to," Joffrey said, standing from his throne and lifting his sword threateningly.

In the briefest moment, Joran believed that the fool was going to try and actually rush him. If he did, the war could be ended with but a move on his part, whether he took the sword from the boy or throttled him with his bare hands. All Joffrey had to do was get close enough and Joran would have him.

But, alas, a hand from Cersei Lannister stopped Joffrey and Joran's chance was swept away.

"You are very brave, Lord Mormont," Cersei said coldly as her son retook his seat heatedly, "to goad a boy into a fight with you. You, a great warrior who has toppled mountains and burned armies to a crisp just as the Targaryens of old. Some would call into account your supposed achievements, considering what they have heard here presently."

"Ha," Joran scoffed, clapping his hands together as though he were a fool, "I did not mean to goad, Lady Cersei, I only meant to confirm."

"Confirm?" Cersei asked, not noticing that Joran had called her a Lady rather than Grace.

"Yes, yes, confirm," Joran said, nodding his head with a laugh, "I wanted to see if your son had any bite to his bark. Now I see that, he is as much a coward as I believed."

Before any in the court could interrupt him, Joran began to count off a list upon his fingers as he spoke, "first, there was the circumstances concerning Lord Stark's execution. Your son wasn't brave enough, nor man enough to swing the sword himself, the mark of a cowardly man. Second, there was the little instances concerning the killing of _bastards_ belonging to his father within the city. A trueborn son wouldn't need to worry about bastards discrediting his claim to his father's seat, yet yours was truly afraid. Third, I heard from quite the bird that, your son hid behind your skirts when Stannis attacked not weeks ago. A King who doesn't lead his own men into battle, is craven, and doesn't disserve to be called a King in the first place. And finally, you making him decline my little _goad_ confirms my suspicions. That there is a craven sitting upon the Iron Throne."

"I'll show you a craven, you damned fuck," Joffrey seemed to scream at Joran, jumping again from his seat and pointing his sword directly at the chained man as he made to move down the dais.

Having left out the part of Joffrey being a bastard, Joran figured that the moment the title left his mouth, he was truly dead.

Sadly, Joffrey didn't reach the bottom of the dais before Tyrion Lannister intervened.

"Brave words from a captive," Tyrion said, his words bringing Joffrey to a halt just before the last step, "my nephew here is not on trial for his past failures, you are Joran Mormont."

"Trial," Joran laughed, "the only crime I am guilty of is the crime of loyalty to the only King I'll ever bend to, whose name is Stark."

Before Tyrion could rebuke Joran's words, Joffrey bellowed, "I'll make you bend to me, you damned Wildling."

Then, with a snap of his fingers, Joffrey ordered one of his Kingsguard, the one Joran recognized as the one who killed Black Walder and his men upon his arrival, his name spoken as Ser Meryn Trant, to come over and put him in his place.

"Down you dog," Trant said upon his approach, raising a boot to step on Joran's wrist chain to force him to the ground.

With a small smile, Joran allowed Meryn's foot to step upon his chain, but, keeping his feet, he then lifted and shoved Trant's foot up, forcing the knight to fall to his back in his armor and cloak.

His actions producing a laugh from the gathered, Joran raised his hands innocently as he spoke, "I have no weapons, nor armor, and yet, I felled a knight of the Kingsguard with not but my bare hands and a chain."

Huffing and puffing on his way back up, Meryn Trant adjusted his now crooked helmet and drawing his sword spat out the words, "no man insults his Majesty's Kingsguard."

When the man swung down upon him, Joran sidestepped Trant and with a slight lift of his foot, tripped the knight, causing him to fall face first to the stone floor, his helmet flying from his head to slide across the throne room.

"I've done it again," Joran said, calmly gesturing with his hands to where Trant now lay as everyone else but those upon the dais laughed at the spectacle, "only this time, I didn't have to lift a finger."

Acting the innocent fool for all present, Joran clapped his hands upon his cheeks in an attempt to look surprised.

But, gathering his composure, Joran returned his attention back to the dais to see Joffrey seething behind his Kingsguard, his mother's mask turning red with anger, his uncle's stern, the Tyrell's and Pycelle shocked, a smirk from both the Hound and the nameless swordsman, and Varys calm and collected as ever.

Coughing to clear his throat, Joran, stepping to where he could keep an eye on Trant and the rest of the Kingsguard, then asked, "so, trial, hm? What are my crimes, Lord Hand?"

"You are tried with treason," Tyrion said, his stern mask remaining much to Joran's unseen surprise, "and before a court of your peers we find the evidence against you to be more than enough to execute you."

"Heh, the only treason I'm guilty of is the treason of not killing that thing there," Joran said, pointing blatantly towards Meryn Trant, huffing and puffing as he stood back up and made his way back to the row of Kingsguard in front of the dais, "but, if in the eyes of the court I am guilty, I would wish for the gods to prove that I am so."

"A trial by combat," Pycelle said, speaking for the first time since the fiasco began, "preposterous, you are already guilty of the charges against you Lord Mormont, and to believe that you are otherwise is foolhardy."

"So," Joran began, raising his hands in confusion, "now you would deny a lord's right to defend himself and prove his innocence before the Gods themselves. For shame Grand Maester, aren't those of your order supposed to be neutral in the face of conflicts and crimes. Then again, I would vacate my vows too if it meant I was to be paid off by the Lannisters."

"You dare," Pycelle said before he was cut off by a raised hand from Tyrion.

"If it is the wish of the accused," Tyrion said calmly, "then there shall be a trial by combat to ascertain his innocence, if he so accepts?"

"I do accept," Joran said with a nod.

"Very well," Tyrion said before snapping for the Gold Cloaks' present to take hold of Joran again, "return him to the Black Cells and place him in a cell upon the second level until the time of his Trial arrives."

Watching as confused looks all turned to Tyrion from most upon the dais, Joran realized that the Little Lion was giving him a better deal than the third level and those present upon the dais didn't agree with his decision.

"This court is adjourned for the day," Tyrion said above the din of all the gathered men and women as Joran was led out of the Throne Room by the Gold Cloaks to his new cell.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 17: A Week's Reprieve I

 **Hello and welcome back folks. Please forgive me for the long update, the summer college semester started up and I'm trying to rake in all the credits while I can get them. So, for those of you who are still with me, I have written a long one for you to detail Joran's stay within the dungeons of the Red Keep, as well as his interactions with a few of its occupants and the prelude to his trial. Now, for your reading pleasure, here is the next chapter in the story of Joran. NOTE: I own nothing.**

Joran: Day 1

Awakening from the first dreamless sleep he's had in a long time to the light of morning that showed through a high window, along with the smell of the city outside, Joran, still dressed in his filthy and now tattered party clothes but now lacking his shackles, sat up on the straw bed that occupied his new cell to watch as the door to his confines was unlocked by the gaoler.

"Rise and shine Mormont," the man said in a gruff and indifferent voice while he turned the key, "you've got quite the visitor."

Adjusting upon his bed so that his feet hung off of the side, Joran began to rub some of the sleep out of his eyes when the door finally opened for him to see who his visitor was.

Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King along with his servant, the swordsman that Joran couldn't identify the day before.

"Thank you," Tyrion said, looking up to the gaoler and passing him some coin, "you may leave us."

"Yes Milord," the gaoler said with a nod before taking his leave.

Watching as Tyrion seemed to waddle into the cell with his man close behind, Joran felt an itch of curiosity tug at him as to why the man would come to visit him.

"Good morning, Lord Mormont," Tyrion said with a stern yet pleasant tone.

"Um, good morning," Joran said before continuing to rub the sleep out of his eyes and asking, "to what do I owe the pleasure of entertaining the Lord Hand?"

"Oh, I was just passing by," Tyrion said before producing a wine skin from out of nowhere from his belt, "would you like to share a drink with me?"

Shaking his head, Joran answered, "no thank you, My Lord."

"Odd," Tyrion said before uncorking the wineskin, "I've never met a northerner who wouldn't drink with me, but then again, considering where we are, I highly doubt that anyone would drink anything for fear of poisoning. But, oh well, more alcohol for me I suppose."

With his last words, Tyrion took a hefty gulp from the wineskin, proving to Joran that there was no foul play present.

Eyeballing the man curiously, Joran felt as though his question hadn't really been answered and said, "I don't believe that your King or Queen Regent would appreciate the fact that you had just offered an enemy of theirs some nourishment, especially considering the show that I displayed for them yesterday."

"Ah, but what they don't know, won't hurt them," Tyrion said before waddling over to Joran's bed and taking a seat upon the mattress right next to the northerner, "or me for that matter."

Again, Tyrion offered up the wineskin to Joran and cautiously, he accepted it.

Taking a long swig of the substance, Joran felt the liquid burn on its way down to his belly, making him almost cough at the strength of the brew.

"What is this," Joran asked, passing the wineskin back to Tyrion.

"Dornish wine," Tyrion said before taking another drink from the skin and continuing, "the only thing that's on our side from Dorne at the moment."

"Oh," Joran said quizzically, accepting the wineskin back and beginning a rotation with the smaller man, "why's that?"

As Joran took a smaller sip of the concoction, Tyrion answered, "Dorne has allied themselves with Robb Stark."

Almost spitting out the wine, Joran kept it down and coughed while passing it back to Tyrion.

"When did this happen? And, how?" Joran asked while Tyrion sipped from the wineskin.

"Oh," Tyrion said after two gulps of the wine, "it happened, I'd say, the second or third day after the Red Wedding, what the party at the Twins is now being called for obvious reasons. The Red Viper showed up in the northern encampment with the message of alliance from his brother, Doran the Prince of Dorne. Ten thousand Dornish spears were promised, and from what spies the Spider has down there, they are amassing rather quickly.

"As to how. Well, it would seem that you unknowingly have made yourself quite the ally with Dorne, your part in killing Gregor Clegane and defeating my father upon the Gold Road has made Doran and Oberyn, grateful to say the least. Within the month, Robb Stark will be on the move again and what's worse, as the Wolves attack us from the north, the Snakes will no doubt hit us hard from the south."

Joran couldn't believe it. Dorne of all kingdoms had sided with the cause against the Iron Throne, all because of something that he had done out of instinct. Joran knew that there would be repercussions from what he had accomplished in the Riverlands, he just didn't think that they would stretch so far south.

"You must be feeling quite proud of yourself," Tyrion said, looking at the wineskin as though it was the man's only comfort, "without even being there, you have single handedly given me and my family more enemies to worry about, and one less friend to count on."

"Your family has had it coming for a while now, my Lord," Joran said in his defense, however hard he tried to make his words sound less threatening, they sounded nonetheless so.

Switching his eyes from the skin to Joran, Tyrion, his scar more noticeable now due to the close proximity he had with the other man, smiled a sad smile at Mormont's words.

"It has hasn't it," Tyrion said with a nod of assurance more to himself rather than to his prisoner, "all the way back to Robert's Rebellion to the present, the Lannisters have had their own separate debts to pay for their own sins against, everyone it would seem. First, my father for the Rains, then the burning and slaughter held here in King's Landing upon his command, along with the murder of the royal family. Second, my brother and sister and their tryst, a sin against the Gods more than the people, even though the people suffer now because of it either way. Third, my nephew, killing an innocent man, children and babes, almost killing me even, his crimes shouting all across the Seven Kingdoms, the war being proof of that. And let us not forget, me, a child who killed his own mother coming into the world, and disgracing my family name in all ways I can find. Sadly, though it's me who's holding it all together now, and I'm so very tired."

Watching as the man, who many would call the Half Man, drank more from the wineskin, Joran felt a pang of sorrow for him. Someone so small shouldn't have had such burdens upon his shoulders. The weight surely to crush any lesser man were their places to be switched. And, Joran also felt a newfound respect for Tyrion because of it.

"I'm surprised," Joran said, breaking the silence that had built after Tyrion's little confessions, "a man so disliked by his own family holding it all together. From all that I've heard about you, your reputation wouldn't match the man sitting right next to me."

"Sorry to disappoint," Tyrion said with a smile, "but, although there is much to my reputation that I will admit to have done without a second thought, in my mind, a man's true character should be how people perceive him, not what he has done."

"Wise words," Joran said, accepting the wineskin when the Hand offered it to him and eyeballing it before asking, "is it true that once, you downed an entire barrel of Dornish wine in one night?"

Nodding, Tyrion answered, "it is, that was back in Lannisport, what came after that though, no one ever remembers because they had all gone to sleep."

Leaning closer to Joran, Tyrion then explained, "after I had finished with the barrel, I made my way over to the brothel that was conveniently situated next door to the tavern and from there, I had an orgy that lasted from the dawn of the next day to dusk. It had taken the guards that were supposed to be protecting me, an entire day to find me, when they could've simply walked next door and asked if I was home."

Chuckling a little at the story, Joran took a sip of the wine and passing it back to Tyrion, said, "that is truly amazing, to say the least. I can only imagine how your manhood must have felt after that."

"In truth, my cock was sore for two days before I could find the need to fuck again," Tyrion said with a chuckle of his own before sipping from the skin again.

"It also amazes me how wealthy you and your family are," Joran said, taking the wineskin back, "you all must have gold up to your shoulders at Casterly Rock, enough cold to bury Bear Island twice over."

As Joran sipped, Tyrion gave the younger man an odd look before saying, "you know, when I first heard about your story from Varys, Lord Mormont, I had come to admire you. Yes, I came to admire the fact that, after you and your family had been left to live like paupers by your cousin Jorah, you dug yourself out to the light of day again, earning a reputation that now even rivals my father's in the destruction of House Rain."

Passing the wineskin back, Joran shook his head and said, "I haven't done anything as impressive as that. I've only done what comes naturally to me and my kind."

"And what is that," Tyrion asked, bringing the skin up to his mouth to drink.

"Survive," Joran said plainly, looking at Tyrion as he drank.

Removing the wineskin from his mouth, Tyrion looked back at Joran and said, "well, you'll have to do your best to recover quickly if you wish to continue surviving."

Noticing the simple mood that Tyrion had had before vanished, Joran then asked the obvious, "how long before my trial proceeds?"

"I've convinced the Small Council to give you a week to heal and rest before you can fairly be judged," Tyrion answered, looking back to his wine skin, "the time in between now and the end of the week is all you have. No doubt my sister and nephew will see to it that you don't make it through the week, so that is why I am having my man Bronn over there post guards loyal to him and paid by me to watch over you, and I shall be sending someone I trust to tend your wounds."

"You know," Joran said, using a hand to politely decline the wineskin when Tyrion tried to pass it back, "you've done more for me than I have for your father and brother. I have to ask, why? Why give me a nicer cell upon the second level? Why protect me, or even help heal me for that matter? And more importantly, why share wine with an enemy?"

"If there's one thing that I learned from Robert while he was still alive," Tyrion said, retracting his beverage, "it's that the quickest way to make an enemy a friend, is to treat him as if he was a fellow drinking partner. I only hope that after this visit, you will consider me to be your friend for the duration of your stay here in King's Landing."

Smiling at the prospect of becoming a friend of Tyrion Lannister's, Joran extended a hand and said, "it would be my honor to call you friend, Tyrion. At least, until I get out of here."

Taking Joran's hand, Tyrion said, "I only hope that the aid I can give you helps."

Retracting his hand Joran said, "it will."

"Ah yes," Tyrion said, his mood lightening slightly, "by the way that was quite the show you put on for us yesterday."

"Oh," Joran said, feeling rather sheepish about that subject, "that, uh, spectacle was all I could do at the time. My wounds hurt like a bitch when I had to lift that Trant off of my chains, in fact I'm surprised that I even managed."

"You doubt your own abilities," Tyrion asked rather slyly.

"Since I'm not entirely whole yet," Joran said honestly, "I don't know how far I can take myself before I am stopped by my wounds."

"Admitting your own limits is quite a feat," Tyrion said with a smile, "in fact, after I heard that you defeated the Mountain, I believed you didn't have any."

Laughing at Tyrion's words, Joran said, "I am only a man, Lord Hand. Even I have limits."

"Please," Tyrion said, "call me Tyrion, Lord Mormont."

"Well then, Tyrion," Joran said, figuring that if they were going to use names, he should only make it fare, "call me Joran."

…

For the rest of the morning, Joran was treated to wine from Tyrion and what little breakfast was delivered to him by the gaoler before the Lord Hand had to return to his duties in the levels above.

Within two hours of Tyrion leaving, Joran was treated with another visitor to his cell.

Pacing back and forth in his cell with nothing better to do, Joran's movements were interrupted by the gaoler making the announcement of company before he opened the door.

When Joran saw what had been on the other side of the doorway, he couldn't believe his eyes.

There were two women.

One standing behind the other, her hair dark, her dress plain and her features comely, holding fresh bandages, a basin of water with a rag in it, and what appeared to be fresh clothes in her arms, Joran figured her out to be the servant to the woman who held his stare.

She had a kind of girlish look about her features, though they seemed to be growing into that of a woman, a woman whose beauty was beginning to show. Wearing a blue dress with grey trimmings that complemented her eyes and was fitted rather well to her form, the woman stood straight and proud as a noble lady should. And her hair, done in a fashion that would have been the norm for southern women, was of a color that Joran had seen only one other time, and that was the last time he had laid eyes on Lady Catelyn when she had saved his life.

Standing before Joran, was Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

When the Stark girl entered with her servant right behind her, Joran then saw an escort of two guards that lacked any Lannister symbol on them, no doubt from Tyrion, standing outside the door of his cell, watching as the women stepped in.

The gaoler, leaving the door open for the guards and the ladies until they were finished with their business, left to go back to his post at the top of the stairs.

Feeling strange at the site of the vision before him, Joran began to feel his hands clench and unclench into fists out of something he hadn't felt in years, nervousness.

Crossing his hands behind his back to hide his hands, Joran, with what little movement he had, bent over slightly to bow to Sansa, without tearing open his wounds saying, "My Lady Stark, it is a pleasing site to see that you are well."

"Please, Lord Mormont," Sansa said in a voice that, although was somewhat quiet and shy in personality, sounded sweet and kind to Joran's ears, "I beg you to stand. There is no need for formalities here. Not when, you are hurt."

Returning to standing straight, Joran then realized with surprise that, Sansa was who Tyrion had referred to as a 'friend,' to come and tend to his wounds.

"I take it then that," Joran said, eyeing the doorway and the guards posted, no doubt their only use for being there was to report on everything that was said between the northerners, "our mutual friend sent you to take care of me?"

Nodding in answer, Sansa said, "yes and no, the Lord Hand had requested the use of my maid servant Shae to, come tend to your wounds and, I had requested to be with her when she did in case I could help."

 _Or you just wanted to ask me some questions about how your family is,_ Joran thought since it went without saying why the Stark girl would really be there.

But, whether Sansa was genuine or not in her words didn't matter to him, because for some odd reason Joran didn't mind the fact that she was there.

"Lord Mormont," the Shae woman spoke up, bringing Joran out of his thoughts, "if you could remove your clothes for me, we can begin cleaning and rebinding your wounds."

Feeling a slight blush creep over his face at the thought of stripping in front of a Sansa, Joran did as he was asked by the servant woman and carefully began to strip himself of his party clothes.

Turning away from them as he removed his shirt, Joran felt pain. His movements causing irritation to the many wounds he had sustained from the Wedding, Mormont felt as though they would tear open again if he moved another inch in either direction. With a little luck however, Joran's torso was bare of clothing and it appeared than not one of his wounds had reopened.

Looking down at his own body, Joran saw that the Frey men who had taken him captive before had done a poor job of bandaging his chest up, seeing that a few arrow holes hadn't been covered up by the bandages that had been used.

Joran was lucky that none of them were infected, otherwise he wouldn't have lasted the week and would be dead by two to three days if a fever broke out.

Turning around to face the women, Joran saw a look of surprise on the face of Shae and a look of shocked horror upon Sansa's.

"I take it that you haven't seen many wounded men before, Lady Sansa," Joran asked, knowing full well that the girl hadn't.

"No, my Lord, you are the first," Sansa said, her composure returning to normal as she and Shae approached.

"Please, sit down my Lord," Shae said.

Doing as he was told, Joran took a seat upon his straw bed and said, "there are, two more wounds, they're just on my legs."

"I'll deal with the ones on your torso first," Shae said while setting the basin of water down upon the stone floor along with all of the other materials, "then, we can get to your legs after."

Nodding, Joran allowed Shae and a timid Sansa to begin removing the bandages from atop his body.

Wincing as each piece of cloth that had been stuck to his person was taken off, the scabs upon his body becoming irritated and paining him when they were disconnected from the bandages, Joran began to count each of the arrow holes upon his chest and saw three that had been covered by the bandages, while a fourth hadn't.

"How many more spots are there on my back," Joran asked the women.

Moving slightly to allow Shae to look upon his back, Joran heard her answer, "there are five my Lord."

Nodding, Joran believed himself to be more than lucky that he was still alive.

Once the bandaging had been removed from his chest, Shae, after dipping two rags into the bowl of water, after handing one to Sansa, she climbed upon the bed behind Joran and began to clean the arrow wounds that were on his back.

"Could you please, sit up Lord Mormont," Sansa said kindly.

Doing as he was asked, Joran straightened up his sitting position and with his chest exposed, allowed Sansa to begin cleaning the arrow wounds that dominated his chest.

"These must have hurt," Sansa said as she ran the cloth over Joran's chest delicately, "thank the Gods that none of these found your heart."

"It did hurt, for a time," Joran said in agreement with the girl, "and, I haven't been able to thank the Gods for, quite a long time now without a Gods Wood."

"Perhaps one day," Sansa said, her eyes lingering upon Joran's chest as drops of water ran down it, "the King in his mercy would permit you a chance to visit them."

"I highly doubt that Joffrey is capable of such a feat, my Lady," Joran said plainly, knowing full well that the only time he'll be able to leave this cell was if he survived the trial by combat.

"Well, if he doesn't, I could pray for you in your stead," Sansa said before dipping the cloth back in to the basin and rinsing it.

"That is, kind of you," Joran said, realizing his tone was rather gentle towards Sansa, "to pray for me, and, help tend to me."

When she returned her attention back to him, Sansa, sliding the rag over the wounds upon his chest again, said, "it isn't any trouble on my part, Lord Mormont. I would do the same for anyone else if they were in need of help."

Feeling his heart flutter at her touch and words, Joran felt rather unnerved at the fact that Sansa was speaking to him so kindly and treating him as one who was in need.

"My Lady, the bandages," Shae said, gesturing back to where she had lain the cloth upon the floor of the cell.

Grabbing them, Sansa helped Shae begin wrapping Joran up in the fresh white cloth, her hands upon his chest over his heart to hold the fabric in place and making his heart race at her touch.

"Lord Mormont," Sansa said, grabbing the bandage as Shae passed it around Joran's body without taking notice of his heart rate, "I must ask, how fares my brother?"

Lifting his arms so that it would be easier for the women to pass the bandage around his body, Joran answered, "he is alive and well the last I saw of him."

"I heard that, you saved his life," Sansa said, a small smile crossing her face, "and that your wounds were, supposed to be meant for him."

"They were," Joran said, being honest with the girl, "had I not acted when I did, who knows what would have happened to Robb."

"Thank you," Sansa said, passing the last of the cloth to Shae to tie into place, "for protecting him."

"It was my duty, my Lady," Joran said, with a smile of his own, "he is my King, and he needed protecting."

Then, Joran watched as Sansa grabbed her rag up again and began to approach his face with it.

"You have a mark on your left cheek, my Lord," Sansa said, her face mere inches from Joran's as she worked to cleaning his cheek.

Being able to see Sansa's Stark gray eyes while she ran the rag over his face, Joran remembered that the mark had been from Roose's dagger at the Wedding when he had tried to impale Joran's eye.

With Sansa so close, Joran could feel the butterflies in his stomach flutter towards their peak.

Before he knew it though, Sansa had finished and backed away from Joran, causing the uneasy feeling in his stomach to cease.

"Now," Shae said, coming from around Joran's back to return to his front, "if you could remove your pants my Lord, we can deal with your other wounds."

Feeling his face grow red, Joran began to do as he was told, and to his relief, Sansa Stark turned her back to him so as not to see him when he wasn't decent.

Looking down at his leg, Joran saw that the Frey's hadn't been so kind enough to bandage the arrow hole or the sword cut that he had sustained when fighting their men at the Twins, the cut being the worst of the two, red with fever and painful to the touch of Shae.

"You will need medicine for your leg my Lord," Shae said as she ran her own rag across the wound, Joran wincing with each touch, "otherwise, you may have to cauterize it to prevent the infection from getting worse."

Knowing for a fact that here in the Red Keep any medicine could be tapped with poison if word were to spread for his need of it, Joran chose to go with the alternative and asked Shae, "can you cauterize it now?"

"I could, but, it would be painful," Shae answered, surprised that Joran would even ask her that question, instead of one that would pertain to medicine.

"Pain isn't what I'm worried about," Joran said flatly, giving his consent.

"I will get a torch," Shae said with a sigh, looking as though she wanted to be doing anything other than what Joran had asked of her before moving out of the room and past the guards.

Removing the belt from his ruined trousers, Joran tugged at the leather and finding it good enough to use, looked out to where the Lannister guards were and shouted out to them, "hey, you two."

Catching both of the guards' attention, Joran waved for them to enter saying, "the woman is going to need your help in restraining me when it starts."

Both of the men looking at him blankly, Joran believed them to be timid at the thought of getting in the same room as him and said reassuringly, "don't worry, I won't bite you. Hells, I won't even try to hurt either of you if you come in and help."

Reluctantly, the guards entered and after they did, Shae reappeared carrying a torch in her hands.

"All right," Joran said, laying down upon the bed before instructing the guards, "one of you come over here and hold down my legs, the other my shoulders. Make sure I'm not able to move, cause if I am and she misses and has to do this all over again, it won't be pretty for either of us."

Doing as they were told, one man held Joran's legs down at the ankles and the other at his shoulders.

"Sansa," Shae said, looking rather frightened at the fact that Joran was all too willing to be burned to seal the wound, "go over to him and hold his head into place."

"Have you done this before," Sansa asked without turning around to look at Joran.

"Only once," Shae said, "it isn't going to be easy, which is why you are going to need to make absolutely sure that he doesn't spasm and snap his own neck."

"Alright," Sansa said, her voice sounding rather frightened to Joran, who figured that this was obviously the first time that she would see someone get burned in order to heal them.

When she turned around to move over to where his head was, Joran, the feeling of nervousness at the fact that Sansa could see him almost naked, handed her his belt and said, "put this in my mouth and be sure it stays there, do you understand my Lady."

Nodding in answer, Sansa sat beside Joran's head and allowing him to use her thigh as a pillow, placed the leather in between his teeth to protect him from biting his own tongue.

Shae, moving over to stand above Joran's leg with the torch that looked none too appealing to Joran up close, asked him "are you ready?"

Affirming that he was with a nod, Joran took hold of the sides of his bed's frame and prepared himself to feel perhaps the worst pain of his life.

Watching as Shae lowered the torch closer and closer to his leg, Joran forced his eyes away from before the fire touched his flesh.

Then, when the flames made contact, Joran bit down hard into the belt and gripping the frames of his bed, screamed through clenched teeth as his wound was burned closed.

The guards holding him down well enough so that he wasn't struggling too much, Joran was forced to look up to the only thing that was above him, and that was Sansa's grey eyes, which had the look of terror and sorry within them while she witnessed the pain that he was suffering.

And, as soon as it had begun, it stopped.

Breathing hard, Joran opened his mouth to let Sansa take the belt out and as the guards released him, he sat up on his bed to inspect the damage.

The wound and the infection that would have come with it, had been burned away well enough that Joran wouldn't have to worry about either in the coming days.

"Bandage the arrow wound first," Joran said to Shae, beginning to feel rather lightheaded from his brief ordeal, "give the other one, some time to breath before, you, put…"

Then, Joran fell back into Sansa's lap and passed out.

…

Waking back up with a jolt, Joran, shirtless and the wounds to his leg bandaged, found that it was now dark inside his cell, save for the moonlight that showed down through the window, and Sansa and Shae were no longer in his cell.

Sitting up on his bed, Joran looked around him and found the clothes that Shae had brought were folded neatly upon the floor beside him.

Rising slowly from the bed and placing his feet upon the floor, Joran picked up the clothes and looking at them immediately thought about Sansa.

 _Why can't I stop thinking about her,_ Joran thought, the girl's face and her grey eyes dominating his mind.

"Have a nice sleep," a feminine voice asked from the shadow of a corner.

Recognizing the voice and unsurprised at the fact that the man would visit him again, Joran looked over to the corner where the voice originated from and answered, "as a matter of fact I did, Varys."

Stepping into the moonlight, Varys, dressed in silk robes of a different color than the ones that Joran had seen him in the other day, continued to speak with a question, "could you have by chance been dreaming about wolves, while you were out?"

Feeling as if it was a bad thing that the Spider could know everything, Mormont looked over to the fat and bald eunuch and answered plainly, "no, I didn't dream of anything in fact."

"Well, that is a shame to hear," Varys said, Joran taking into account that the intruder to his cell was smiling.

"I take it then that you had a hand in Sansa coming to my cell," Joran asked in turn, truly curious if Varys had been a part of the cause for the Stark girl to be there, and if so, was also interested why he would.

"I may have let slip to the Lord Hand that, it would be a good idea to have Sansa Stark meet you," Varys said in answer, "considering as how, every hand that is able to heal in the Red Keep, works for the Queen Regent and in the Kings favor. Seeing that young Sansa wouldn't be a threat on your life, Tyrion thought it would be best to have her and her servant tend to you. And from what my birds hear of her singing your song sometimes, I believe that the Stark girl rather enjoyed being in your company."

"That was kind of him and you," Joran said flatly, "but what point did that serve?"

"You are still in the south, Lord Mormont," Varys said, Joran eyeballing him suspiciously, "but regardless of your social standing, were Joffrey or Cersei given the slightest chance, you would be killed either awake with a sword or asleep with poison, it doesn't matter to them."

"But it matters to you," Joran asked, feeling as though Varys was trying to dance around his questions.

"It does," Varys said with a nod, "for even though you have caused substantial tides in the pond that is life through joining battle with your enemies, the smaller ones that you have caused are beginning to take a whole new effect of their own."

"What kind of effect," Joran asked.

Moving closer to Joran to where he was standing in front of him, Varys, his hands crisscrossed in the sleeves of his robe, answered, "I take it that you have already heard of Dorne's allegiance from Tyrion?"

When Joran nodded in answer, Varys went on, "but, you haven't heard what the commoners are doing, am I correct?"

"How could I know what _anyone_ is doing from in here," Joran kindly retorted.

"So no," Varys said, beginning to pace this way and that through the cell, "remember what I said about, knowing about your generosity? It would seem that that one family you helped upon the roadside, has sent word to relatives within King's Landing. By now, word about you and Riverrun being a safe haven for the poor after your command there has no doubt spread throughout Flea Bottom. Even when you are locked up, you still have the capability of making friends."

Setting his fresh clothes down upon his bed, Joran clasped his hands together and asked, "why are you telling me all of this? Why show Sansa Stark to me? Why even talk to me at all?"

"I have already answered that, Joran," Varys said, "the night before, I told you that there is a level of respect that men obtain for their deeds, regardless if how just they are."

"I remember," Joran said with a nod, "and you said that I had yours. But, while doing what I know that is right, how is it that it came to be thus?"

"All will be revealed with time, my Lord Mormont," Varys said, halting in his pacing and smiling at Joran before turning to the door, "our time here is up I'm afraid. But fret not, this will not be the last time you or I see each other Joran."

And, with a goodnight, Varys left the cell and Joran alone to brood on the words of the Spider.

…

Day 2

Dressed in the fresh clothes he had been given, a simple white shirt and a pair of pants, Joran had taken breakfast that morning without any company from Tyrion until noon time when he came around.

The sunlight invading his cell, Joran was glad for the light that his cage allowed him as well as the visitor who liked to come and talk to him.

Lacking the wineskin this time for a squire boy that looked rather timid for his age, Tyrion was rather sober and straight to the point, after greeting Joran of course, why he was there.

"You are quite the topic Joran," Tyrion said, looking less comfortable this time around in the taller man's presence, but more so than the squire.

Not minding the demeanor of his newfound friend and his man, Joran asked, "how so?"

"All morning, the Small Council has been arguing with the Queen and King as to why we just don't kill you and be done with all of this business," Tyrion answered, seeing no need to hide anything from Joran, "due to the fact that you demanded a Trial by Combat, as is your rite to do so as a lord, we placated the two of them and countered that, the moment we ignored the wish of the accused, it would just be a replay of what happened to Lord Eddard."

In agreement, Joran saw the sense in how Tyrion was trying to avoid another scenario like the one concerning Lord Stark.

"I see," he said, "well, since my immediate death has been, _stalled,_ is there a decision as to who I will be fighting when my trial commences in six days' time?"

"That was another argument that the Council was occupied with deciding," Tyrion answered, coming over to sit on Joran's bed while the other man stood, leaving his squire by the doorway of the cell, "Mace Tyrell suggested that Randyll Tarly be called in from the field to due out justice, after Loras the Knight of Flowers tried volunteering. My sister, recommended Sandor Clegane have the honors of dealing out the death penalty, due to his outstanding service during the battle of Black Water, she even suggested Ser Ilyn Payne, considering how he has the sword Ice on his back she believes that his skill will be unmatched with the valyrian steel Greatsword. As for Joffrey, he simply said that he should have his entire Kingsguard do battle with you, as a test to see how real your prowess is when it comes to battle."

Nodding, Joran thought on the list of his opponents for a moment.

Randyll Tarly, however much a genius as he was when it came to leading men, would perhaps be a likely challenge for Joran on a one on one fight. But then there was the fact that, without him, the Reach wouldn't have someone to lead their second army to protect their lands, as well as the Capitol if Robb made it that far. So, Randyll Tarly would already be out of the question.

Loras Tyrell, even though he did look like a woman to Joran in matters of masculinity, still had some fame to his name when it came to one on one combat. Having heard of the Knight of Flowers, Mormont at one point or another had thought about how someone so young could be able to wield blade and lance against seasoned men on a tourney ground, and was somewhat impressed. But, then again, Joran surmised that he had probably killed more men than Loras has fought. And, the Trial wasn't going to be a tourney, it was going to be real and if it came down to it, Mormont didn't think that the Tyrell boy would have the guts to finish him.

Sandor Clegane, would be quite the challenge if he was picked by the opposing party. Though not as large as his brother, the Hound was not known for his civility in a fight, having killed everyone at the command of his master, Joffrey. Joran figured that Sandor would be a vicious warrior to fight, and if it came down to it, Clegane would be the one most likely to kill him.

As for the rest of them, Ilyn Payne was nothing more than a butcher with a tool that was too good to him. The Kingsguard, all of them to a tee, individually they were not that imposing, together though they would no doubt overpower him in the end. Luckily though, it was a Trial of Combat and not a Trial by the Seven, but, Joran was skeptical and believed that anything could happen.

"Those are quite the choices," Joran said, turning to look at Tyrion, now seated rather comfortably upon his straw bed, "who do you think will take up the challenge?"

"Between them all," Tyrion said honestly, "the choice will come down between Loras and Clegane."

"My thoughts exactly," Joran said, agreeing with the likely outcome of the choices, but still unsure about which one of them will be picked, "but, if it came down to it, do you really think that your beloved King and Queen would pick a Flower Knight over a Hound that they will know will get the job done."

"No," Tyrion said with a nod, "even if it came down to it, my sister and nephew would no doubt insult the Tyrells by picking Clegane and by picking him, would have a guaranteed chance to rid themselves of you once and for all."

Returning the nod, Joran said, "may I ask a favor of you then, concerning the equipment I will be using when the trial commences?"

"By all means, might as well tell me now so that it will all be ready when the time comes," Tyrion said, opening his palms to Joran, and indicating to his squire to take down all that was needed.

"I'll need some chainmail, a hauberk if you can manage it," Joran began, believing that plate wouldn't serve him well in his condition and figured that something lighter would be a better choice, "as well as some leather gauntlets and greaves, steel plates sown into them for some insurance."

"I can tell you've thought this out," Tyrion said with a small smile, "I take it you'll be needing a helmet to go with your suit?"

"A helmet won't be necessary," Joran said, "just the hauberk and the other pieces I asked for."

"Weapons, maybe a shield?" Tyrion asked the obvious, when there would be the need of a shield to go with the armor, and there had to be weapons to accompany both.

"A longsword," Joran began in answer, "it doesn't have to be of fine make, just strong enough to do the task needed and not break in the process. "A sturdy round shield will suffice well enough, one that won't break if it were hit hard enough. "There is one more thing that I would ask of, a dagger. "But make the dagger blade thick enough so that it won't break if struck, and the cross guard, have it curved upward with the blade-."

"So that you may trap another man's blade were you to block it with the dagger and your own sword," the squire spoke up from behind Joran, having said the first words since he had come to the cell and bringing Joran's eyes to him."

"Exactly," Joran said, finding the squire rather odd due to his quiet demeanor and the random intelligence that the boy obviously had, "are you learned in combat, boy?"

"He is," Tyrion said when the squire looked down to the ground out of what seemed like shyness, "Podrick Payne, my squire. He is no virgin when it comes to the art that is death."

"I take it he has earned such praise from his master," Joran said, returning his eyes back to Tyrion.

"He has," Tyrion said with a nod, tracing a finger across the scar upon his face, "he saved my life before the Mud Gate, when I had been cut down in the battle."

"Hm," Joran said, looking back at the boy named Podrick before coming back to Tyrion, "he doesn't look like he could hurt a fly."

"Tell that to the man who received a spear through his head by the hands of that boy there," Tyrion said in acknowledgement to Podrick.

"Really, a spear through his head," Joran said in surprise, "I take it then that you've rewarded him by now for his marksmanship."

"I tried," Tyrion said, his mood lightening towards the subject of Podrick, "but, it would seem that my squire is not only a killer but a man who can pleasure a troop of whores enough to not have to pay them after the deeds are done."

"Really," Joran said, his shock growing at the fact that such a man who appeared more like a mouse could show such remarkable talent, "that is quite the pair of feats, I'll be surprised if they don't choose to pit me against him."

Seeing the jest, Tyrion chuckled at Joran's words and said, "it would be a remarkable battle that would rival the legends of the Age of Heroes."

Laughing with Tyrion, Joran stepped closer to his bed and standing over Tyrion, he said, "regardless, those are the items that I will need for when the week is out and my time has come."

Nodding, all mirth gone from his face, Tyrion hopped from Joran's bed and standing beside the northerner, extended a hand up to him saying, "I'll do what I can to get them, to make things somewhat fair on your account. Until then, be sure to get well rested and heal as quickly as you can, otherwise, I'll lose a good friend for conversation."

"So, we're friends now," Joran asked before taking the smaller man's hand.

"Any honest man who drinks with me, I can count as my friend," Tyrion said, shaking Joran's hand, "is there any reason why I wouldn't think otherwise?"

"No," Joran said, releasing Tyrion's hand, "I just didn't think I would have any friends here."

"Oh don't worry," Tyrion said, walking passed Joran over to the door to stand by Podrick, "you already have more than one, and she sings your song daily."

Not wanting to press the matter as to who it was Tyrion meant, Joran bid the Hand goodbye before he left.

…

A few hours or so after Tyrion had left, Sansa and Shae had returned again to give Joran's wounds treatment and some fresh bandaging.

When the door of his cell had opened and the two women were standing before him, Joran had seen Sansa's eyes fall on him the minute he was in her line of sight.

"Good afternoon, Lord Mormont," Sansa said before stepping into the room.

"My Lady," Joran greeted her with a curt nod, wandering why Sansa was staring at him.

"I trust that your new clothes are to your satisfaction," Sansa asked, coming to stand before Joran while Shae went over to the bed and laid out her supplies, looking him up and down as though he had the look of a sickly child that could fall at any moment.

"They're better than my other clothes, that's for sure," Joran said with a gesture over to where he had thrown his old party clothes in the corner of his cell.

"It brings me, joy to see that you are still with us," Sansa said, a small smile coming to her face.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be," Joran asked, truly curious as to if Sansa's words had some inner meaning.

"Well," Sansa said, before her smile disappeared and she clasped her hands in front of her shyly, "after…the incident with your leg yesterday, when you passed out, I had feared you wouldn't wake up from your sleep."

 _She was worried about me?_ Joran couldn't believe what he was hearing, but then again, he shouldn't have been surprised as to the kindness of the Stark girl in front of him.

Patting his burn-scarred leg gently with his hand, a kind smile on his face, Joran used the gesture to reassure Sansa that he was alright, "believe me my Lady, it'll take more than a little fire to part me from this world."

Returning his smile with one that seemed to melt Joran's heart, Sansa said, "I am happy that it didn't, Lord Mormont."

Staring at Sansa, Joran took to wondering, how such a kind and gentle soul could survive in such a place like this.

"My Lord," Shae brought Joran back from his thoughts and to his cell, "we need to redress your wounds."

Briefly looking over to Shae, Joran gave the woman a nod before looking back to Sansa and saying playfully, "ah, yes, well then, let's get to it then."

After that, Joran allowed the women to remove his bandages, clean his wounds, and bandage him again in silence, bidding them both a good by this time around before they left him alone in his cell.

…

Later that evening, laying on his straw mattress, Joran looked up to the ceiling of his cell, lost in his thoughts about Sansa. He didn't know why, but he couldn't stop thinking about her. And odd as it was, Joran didn't want to stop thinking about her.

Among the many things he had seen during the course of this War, Joran hadn't believed he would see anything or anyone for that matter who was as pure of heart and innocent like Sansa was to him.

When she had been close enough to him earlier, Joran had smelled her perfume, a smell that reminded him of the sweet blueberries he and his sisters in their youth use to find all over Bear Island in the warmest spring. When they looked at each other, he always found it hard not to get lost in the grey Stark eyes that the girl was blessed with; for some reason, Joran believed there to be a depth to them that was uncommon in normal people. And for the briefest moment earlier, Sansa had brushed a gentle hand against his own, igniting feelings inside Joran that he never thought existed before.

Tossing and turning in his bed, Joran couldn't feel the want, or even the need to go to sleep.

But, eventually, it took him, and when his eyes closed, his mind was blessed with the fair image of Sansa Stark.

…

Day 3

His morning unvisited by Tyrion Lannister, Joran took his breakfast alone in his cell. Figuring that the Hand of the King had pressing matters that required his attention, Mormont didn't mind the absence of the smaller man in the slightest. Granted, Joran did enjoy Tyrion's company when he chose to give it, he also liked to keep to his own company in the privacy of his cell.

For though Joran trusted Tyrion – to an extent anyway – he had to always remind himself about where he was and what kind of people lived here.

So, whether Tyrion was attempting to fool him into trusting him for some insidious plot or he was being sincere in his want of friendship, Joran didn't know, but wasn't about to dismiss either of his assumptions for favoritism of one outcome over the other.

If it came down to it though, Joran hoped that Tyrion was on his side.

Morning soon turned into afternoon and right on schedule, Sansa came by with Shae and her fresh bandages for his wounds.

"Good afternoon, Lord Mormont," Sansa said, her voice happier than it had been yesterday to Joran's ears.

"Good afternoon, my Lady," Joran said in acknowledgement of the two women standing in the doorway of his cell, "it is good to see you, I was afraid you wouldn't show today."

"Why wouldn't we come," Sansa asked while Shae set aside her medical provisions.

Not wanting to let on that he had been afraid that with Tyrion not visiting, Sansa wouldn't be either, Joran simply put, "I'm not sure, I just get these feelings sometimes when it comes to some things."

"Well, I can assure you, my Lord," Sansa said kindly, "I wouldn't miss a visit with you for the world."

Her words brought butterflies to Joran's stomach, and as much as he didn't want to admit it, he liked it.

So the women cleaning and bandaging his wounds, most appearing to be better already from the care they received, Joran wanting to hear more of Sansa's voice, asked her, "so, Lady Stark, tell me about yourself."

Dabbing an arrow wound with her wet rag, Sansa looked up to Joran with eyes wide in surprise before she asked, "what would you like to know, Lord Mormont?"

"Well," Joran said, feeling a knot in his stomach form from nervousness at the fact that he actually wanted to know about Sansa Stark, "given what I know about only two of the Stark children, your personality seems nothing like your brother's or your sister's."

Upon the last word, Joran saw a sudden change in Sansa Stark's demeanor, she had gone from calm and shy to shocked and forthwith.

"You know Arya?"

Then, Joran realized what caused Sansa's reaction; she hadn't known about Arya being found by the northern army weeks ago.

"Yes," Joran said, nodding in affirmation, "we found her in the Riverlands not a month ago. It was after Tywin Lannister had left Harrenhal and the battle at the Gold Road. Arya had been trying to find her way to Riverrun and, she instead found us."

Joran watched as Sansa let out a gasp of relief, tears of joy streaming from her eyes when he said the words.

"Thank the Gods that she did," Sansa said, wiping away her tears with an empty hand, "who knows what might have happened had Arya, not found you."

"Aye," Joran said, a small smile creeping onto his face, "the Gods were truly merciful that day."

"How is she," Sansa asked, taking a seat on the bed of straw next to Joran, "is she well? Was she hurt at all? How did she survive?"

"Calm down, calm down," Joran said, lifting his hands in defense of the younger girl's barrage of questions before explaining, "she was smart enough to disguise herself like a boy, that's how she went unnoticed for so long."

"Oh," Sansa said, her face becoming less excited and more shy at Joran's first answer, placing her hands upon her lap, smiled again when she quietly spoke, "I always made fun of her for looking too much like a boy, and now, it seems that that saved her life."

"That it did, and for the better too," Joran said with a nod before continuing, "because of her decisions, she was unharmed, and the last time is saw her, she was well taken care of."

"The last time," Sansa said, her face paling upon speaking the words and fresh tears threatening to poor, "was that before – the Wedding happened?"

Knowing which wedding Sansa was asking about, Joran nodded again, saying, "yes, I had her put under a special guard when all of that happened."

"That is good," Sansa said, returning the nod, her hair shaking with the movements of her head, "then I should thank you again, Lord Mormont, and again still, for protecting my sister and my brother, during that…travesty."

Seeing that the girl was on the verge of letting her tears flow, understanding why, Joran reached over and enveloped both of her hands in his one when he spoke softly, "your thanks are unnecessary Lady Stark, for, though I succeeded in saving them, I failed in saving one that I know, could never be replaced."

That night, Joran had known that there would be casualties for the choices made by powerful men, and one of the many that had occurred, was a mother who had saved his life.

"She fought then," Joran said, trying to comfort Sansa, "the Lady Catelyn, wanting nothing more than to see her daughter again, fought to the end, saving my life in the process."

Looking down to her lap where Joran's hand was, Sansa sniffed, nodded and said, "my mother was no warrior, but…she was strong, stronger than I can ever hope to be…to make her proud."

"If she was still with us," Joran said, gently gripping Sansa's hands, "she would be more proud of you than you would ever believe was possible, for the strength you have already shown here during your stay is testament to your endurance."

Returning her eyes to Joran, Sansa sniffed again and said, "I haven't been strong. I'm not now, and, I never was. Not when…Joffrey made me look at it…when he beat me…when he forced me to watch when Ser Ilyn…"

Then, Sansa let the tears flow like rain.

Understanding what she meant and figuring that it had been Lord Eddard's execution that she had been forced to watch, Joran brought his hand away from Sansa's and with both arms, brought the girl into a kind embrace.

Laying her head onto his shoulder, Joran let Sansa cry, her body wracking with sobs all the while. He didn't know the pain she was in, and if the Old Gods were merciful, he would never have to. But, for those who did know of such pain, losing both parents, Joran would grant such victims a kind embrace that didn't have to be bought or bargained for.

Halfway through her ordeal, Joran felt Sansa bring her arms around his midsection, holding onto him tightly as if afraid he would leave her too.

And, after what felt like ten minutes, Sansa calmed and Joran allowed her to sit back up and look at him face to face.

"I... I am sorry, for my behavior, Lord Mormont," Sansa said, wiping her cheeks for any tears that had been left behind, "I…don't know what got into me."

"It is fine," Joran said reassuringly, placing a comforting hand on Sansa's arm, "I can only imagine what you've been through, and I cannot judge you for letting your feelings out – here of all places."

"Lord Mormont," Sansa said, before being stopped by Joran when he lifted up his hand to stall her speech.

"My name is Joran, My Lady," he said, a kind smile showing through his beard, "and you don't have to call me 'Lord Mormont,' when we're alone."

Knowing what he meant, Sansa nodded and a new smile appearing on her face, one that Joran would have liked to see more often, she said, "then, Joran, you can call me Sansa, whenever we are alone."

"It is a pleasure to meet you Sansa," Joran said, his tone happy and full of kindness, "now, tell me, what is your favorite thing in the whole world?"

Her smile widening, Sansa shook her head stating, "you'd laugh at me if you knew what it was."

"I've laughed at many things, Sansa Stark," Joran said, his smile broadening with Sansa's, "and I highly doubt that what you like will be able to make me laugh."

"Well," Sansa said, shyly playing with her hair, "my favorite thing in the whole world…is, lemon cakes."

Untrue to his word, Joran chuckled at Sansa's answer, earning him a playful slap to the arm and Sansa telling him that it's not funny.

"Forgive me, Sansa," Joran said, ending his mirth but maintaining his smile, an idea popping into his head, "can I tell you a secret, one that involves something that could top lemon cakes flat out."

When she nodded, Joran whispered playfully to Sansa, "lemon cakes, although very popular with the southern ladies of the court here and a delicacy for them, they are not the best treat in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Oh really," Sansa said with a little playful suspicion, "then what is the best treat?"

"Honey cakes," Joran said.

Known to be a spring treat up on Bear Island when the bees that were known to inhabit the area made their honey, honey cakes, as the named implied, were cakes baked with honey added to the mix of batter. Like lemon cakes, they had to be eaten with forks, more out of necessity rather than dignity due to the sole reason that they were a rather sticky treat to eat at the end of a meal. Due to the current onset of winter, there was a lack of honey to make the honey cakes with, so sadly the cakes wouldn't be seen again in the north until springtime, if it were ever to come again in their lifetime.

"You are joking," Sansa said, "those haven't been made in years, and even if they were, who but southron cooks could make them."

"True to the fact," Joran said, knowing that he hadn't had a honey cake since he was five or six years old and not denying that the infamous practice of making said cakes had been adopted by the southerners, but at the same time, not admitting that that was the only place they came from, "but, though the southrons do make them, they don't make them the way _real_ northern cooks do, cooks that were raised to make them for everyone rather than just one person. To put feeling into the treat so that the public could have a slice of heaven before spring and summer came to their end and the treats would disappear until the snow thawed and the bees returned to make their honey."

Understanding what Joran meant, a smiling Sansa nodded and said, "I hope that one day you will treat me to one of these, mysterious treats of yours, Joran."

"Perhaps when spring comes again, I will," Joran said happily.

And for the rest of their time together, the two talked while Shae worked to redress Joran's wounds, the older woman looking on happily at the scene and figuring that the Stark girl finally had someone that she could trust in the Red Keep.

…


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 18: A Week's Reprieve II

 **Hey folks, this is just a part of the last chapter that I had to extend to another document in order for me to get it up, so we are basically starting off from where the last one left off and the Week's Reprieve continued.**

Day 4

Asleep in his cell, Joran was awakened to the loud bang of his door opening with a violent push from the outside and three figures charging into the cell.

Before he had the chance to stand and defend himself, Joran felt a fist of metal hit him in the face, silencing any attempts at talking and knocking him to the floor.

In a matter of seconds after he hit the ground, Joran felt his body hauled back to his feet by his two other assailants, while the one who struck him placed him in cuffs and chains that only connected his hands together.

And as fast as his attackers had entered his cell, Joran was being hauled out of it by the three men and up the stairs out of the Black Cells.

When they reached the main floor, feeling blood trickling down the side of his face from where he was struck, Joran could only watch hazily as his captors led and forced him through every which way through the corridors of the Red Keep. All the while, if the hands of men weren't on him, he could feel as though he were floating down the hallways of the giant structure, almost as though he were in a dream. Or a nightmare.

But, the dream came to an end when Joran's mind came crashing down back to reality.

With his knees dragging against the stone floor, the group that held Joran soon reached its destination, the doors of the throne room.

Looking at the men who had taken him, Joran saw that there were two Gold Cloaks holding him while a Kingsguard was leading the way, the man throwing the doors open roughly to admit them entrance into the large and empty space, save for the few bodies that awaited the newcomers at the dais.

Noticing that the only light that there was came from the spiked hearths placed around the pillars that held firm the roof of the room, Joran surmised that it was still the middle of the night.

He also realized that his unannounced room raid and his presence then and there, was due to something happening on the outside of King's Landing.

Looking up from the ground and up to the dais, Joran saw them all: Varys, Tyrion with Bronn by his side, Pycelle, Cersei, Joffrey, Margaery, Loras, and Mace, all of whom were either glaring daggers at him or staring pityingly towards him.

At the base of the dais, all of the Kingsguard stood, along with two extra persons.

Sansa and Shae, both of whom were still dressed in their nightclothes and looking frightened as to why they were there.

Finally stopping before the knights and the throne, Joran was thrown down roughly by the Gold Cloaks holding him and then lifted up into a kneeling position before the royal congregation.

"Good evening, Mormont," Joffrey said rather snidely, though frowning as though he had been insulted, "I trust you have been sleeping well?"

Not bothering to say anything, Joran only gave cold silence to avoid playing a game that he was obviously being forced into.

"Your King asked you a question," the Kingsguard who had struck Joran before growled, the voice belonging to Meryn Trant.

"I've told you before, Trant, he's no king of mine," Joran said, blatant and rude before the gathering, his statement earning him another gauntlet to the face, busting open his lip this time.

Tasting the blood in his mouth, Joran listened as Trant spoke, "he is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and any man who says otherwise will not escape unscathed from the wrath of his Kingsguard."

"Ser Meryn," Joffrey said calmly to his man, "leave the prisoner be, I want to talk to him."

"Yes your Grace," Meryn said, walking away from Joran.

Stemming the blood flow in his mouth with his tongue, Joran remained silent while Joffrey spoke, "do you know why I have summoned you at this hour in the night, Mormont? Your pretender King has caused quite the raucous in the Reach recently. Committing another treason towards my rule."

Pointing to the Grand Maester, Joffrey commanded Pycelle to read words from a parchment to Joran.

"Striking from the south in the dead of night two days ago, the Red Viper, has begun," the old man took a pause to gather his sights on a word on the parchment, "to raid the caravans of food stuffs that were to be delivered to the Capitol from the south. Stealing the supplies like a common thief does a purse, Oberyn Martell has made his allegiances known to all in the Realm, and has been dubbed a traitor to the Crown for it."

"Now the other message," Joffrey commanded the ancient man, while Joran took what he had heard to thought.

Robb Stark and Oberyn Martell were using his plan to full effect it would seem. Attacking the supply trains that were meant for the capitol will surely affect the food storages of the Red Keep itself and with any luck, turn the commoners against the wealthy in a month or less, considering the fact that the only reason they were in power was due to the generosity from the Tyrells. Sadly, it would seem that the rose bush was being plucked by a snake.

Unrolling another piece of parchment, Pycelle began to read again, "your Grace, King Joffrey, I beseech thee to send troops to aid in the defense of the Reach. Ever since the beginning of the attacks on the supply caravans, my troops have become spread thin trying to catch the Viper and the Wolf, who have proven to be elusive and terrorizing to terrible affect. We need more men and soon. Your servant and Lord of Horn Hill, Lord Randyll Tarly."

"Do you wish to know when that message was sent," Joffrey asked Joran, who did not even bother to ask before the Boy King continued, "that was sent the night before yesterday, before Robb Stark in the dead of night attacked Randyll Tarly's army in the dead of night, slaughtering them all to a man with the combined forces of the North and Dorne bearing down on the soldiers of the Reach with their teeth bared. The random bands attacking the caravans had been a ruse, a ruse to force Randyll Tarly to send men on a wild chase through the Reach trying to catch a band of men that were no more than five hundred, while an entire ten thousand snuck through the Reach, unnoticed. And now, Tarly is captured, and the ten thousand men that were to be the Reach's defense, are all dead, thanks to your King."

Thinking of what time and preparation had been taken into account for the ploy, Joran couldn't believe how devious the Red Viper was, and with the help of the Young Wolf, it would seem that the northern cause was in good hands without the Blood Bear.

"Do you have anything to say to these new treasons laid out at your feet," Joffrey demanded, scowling at a Joran who was hardly reacting to the news.

Scoffing, Joran, allowed to stand up on his own two feet by the guards flanking him, spoke, "you place crimes at my feet as if I had been there to commit them. Shame I wasn't, if I had been there, we'd be banging on the gates of King's Landing by now, demanding your surrender. But, give it some time and no doubt, my King and his new friend will be here inevitably."

"You boast well for a dead man," Joffrey said angrily, "but before you die, I shall make you suffer for your insolence. Ser Meryn!"

As the man appeared to be stepping towards him, Joran said in warning, "strike me again Trant, and I'll be sure to break your arm."

Stopping in his tracks, Trant looked to his King, the boy only smiling sadistically before commanding the knight, "stay right there, Ser Meryn."

"Yes, your Grace," Trant said with a bow, facing back to Joran with an evil smile of his own.

"Sansa," Joffrey said in a cool voice, bringing the girls attention to him, "come here."

Watching as Sansa did as she was commanded, Joran wondered what kind of game the boy was playing.

Stepping up the dais and stopping before Joffrey, Sansa did a curtsy and said, "yes, your Grace."

And then, before all of those present, Joffrey struck Sansa across the face with his hand, the force of the blow causing the girls head to snap to the side.

"How many treasons does this make for your brother, eh," Joffrey asked the girl, who began to weep at the stinging of the strike, "the fifth? The sixth? I can't remember, why don't you remind me."

Straightening herself up to face Joffrey, Sansa answered, "the sixth, your Grace."

Striking Sansa again, his blow eliciting a cry of pain, Joffrey continued, "and how many is it for you now, eh? Including the one you committed yesterday."

"I don't know what you mean your Grace," Sansa said, tears streaming down her face and bringing a hand to her cheek to sooth the pain.

"Yesterday, after your little visit to the Black Cells," Joffrey began to explain, grabbing a fistful of Sansa's hair and savagely shaking her, "the gaoler heard you humming a certain song on your way from the dungeons. Pray tell, which song was that?"

"The, ow, The Bear who toppled a Mountain," Sansa cried, taking hold of Joffrey's wrist to try and lessen the pull he had on her hair.

" _The Bear who toppled a Mountain,"_ Joffrey yelled angrily in the girl's face before striking her a third time, a punch this time that sent her rolling down the steps of the dais, pieces of her hair still in his hand.

"Joffrey, that is enough," Tyrion said angrily before moving to the aid of Sansa.

Stopping his uncle in his tracks, Joffrey yelled at the smaller man, "you will not stop me from doing as I wish, _I am_ the King and I shall do as I like with the bitch daughter of a traitor."

Glaring daggers up at his nephew, Tyrion eyes shot to the Kingsguard, whose hands were at their swords just waiting for the order to strike him down if he objected.

Backing down, Tyrion left the matter alone reluctantly.

While Joffrey stepped down the dais to where Sansa was, crumpled to the stone floor in tears, Joffrey tore open the girl's night shift, exposing her for all in the room.

"We may not have an audience this time," Joffrey said evilly before snapping his fingers for one of his guard's swords, "but that doesn't mean that I can't have my own private fun."

Gripping the sword of the Kingsguard in one hand, Joffrey lifted it up menacingly for a blow against Sansa's back.

"You touch her again and it will be the last time you have hands, boy," Joran growled menacingly, his voice halting the swing.

Forced to watch as the poor girl was harmed, Joran couldn't stand by and watch while she was butchered before his eyes. So much blood and death he had seen before then, too much by his standards. And this crime against the opposite sex was the last straw in Joran's mind, a crime that couldn't go unpunished in his book.

"You dare, to threaten me," Joffrey said, pointing the blade at Joran rather casually, "chained and at my mercy."

"You have no mercy, boy," Joran said, pouring venom into each word, "that trait was lost to you the moment you were born. I doubt you have anything in your black heart that resembles anything like it. And you should be ashamed to call yourself a king, stooping so low as to harm a girl, who did nothing to you but sing a song that reminded you of your own shortcomings."

"Our guest speaks out of turn," Joffrey said, his anger returning, "Ser Meryn, teach him another lesson, only this time, I want to see him bloody like his name goes."

Doing as he was bid, Trant drew his sword and approached Joran ready to attack.

Standing his ground, Joran, estimating where the Gold Cloaks were on either side of him, waited for Trant to get closer before making a move.

Taking his weapon in both hands, Meryn made a diagonal swing left at Joran.

Ducking and side stepping the swing at the last minute, Joran heard the Gold Cloak to his right scream and watched as he fell to the floor, missing his left leg and bleeding out upon the tiled floor.

When Trant made another swing, horizontal this time, Joran took hold of the Gold Cloak to his left and put him in front of the blade, the man was gutted in the process and his intestines fell out of his belly to the floor.

"Hold still damn you," Trant bellowed, raising his sword for an overhead swing to chop down on Joran.

Doing as he was told, with no intention of letting the blade hit him, Joran waited until the stroke fell. Before it could hit home, he raised his hands over his head, chains and all, catching the sword in the links. When they wouldn't break however, Joran had to wrap the links around the blade and follow the sword blow down to his hip. But, with the sword tight and secure within his grasp, Mormont was able to wrench the weapon free from Trant's hand easily enough.

Bringing the weapon, hilt up, around his head for a massive horizontal swing, Joran smacked Trant's helmet from his head, a loud ring resounding from the impact.

Doubling around again for another strike to the now dazed knight's head, Joran swung harder this time, the impact of the hilt against the flesh of the man's skull giving him the desired effect of death.

As the body of Meryn Trant crumpled to the floor, his skull shattered open, Joran flipped the sword around to where he was now holding the handle of the weapon and pointed it threateningly at the rest of the gathered procession.

"Wounds or no wounds," Joran said, feeling the stretching pain of his hurts under the bandages under his shirt from his extensive movement, "I will not let you touch her again boy, and if you even think to do so, I will dismember you piece by bloody piece until there is nothing left of you but bones to feed the dogs!"

The rest of the Kingsguard, their swords drawn, waited for such an attempt, while Joffrey only stood on the steps of the dais, frozen in shock to what he had just seen, his personal guard, Sandor Clegane, stepping in front of the rest of the Kingsguard to act as the center defense for the King.

"Lord Mormont," Tyrion said, bringing the snarling man's attention to him, "please, I beg of you, stand down and sheath your blade. There is no more need to show anymore sign of force or strength here today. You've bested a Kingsguard, an act only few men could boast of in the real world."

"Boasts mean little to me," Joran said, taking a different and less threatening tone towards Tyrion, "and I will not lay down my sword for a King who harms women so brutishly."

"Think about what your actions will bring about if you do not surrender now," Tyrion said, stepping slowly down the stairs of the dais, "think of the innocents who will be harmed because of your decision to not back down from this fight, the consequences will be most tragic. So I beseech you, please, lay down your arms and we will take you back to your cell."

"What of the Lady Sansa," Joran asked, keeping his sword trained upon the men of the Kingsguard, "will she be safe if I lay down this sword?"

"You have my word as Lord Hand of the Realm," Tyrion said, lifting his hands up in a nonthreatening manner as reached the base of the dais and stepped past the line of knights before the throne, "that no more harm shall come to the Lady Sansa if you toss the blade aside now."

Taking what little time he had to think of a decision, Joran thought of if he could actually trust Tyrion, after what he had seen of the smaller man back down to the boy who called himself a king.

Could he believe that Tyrion would protect Sansa?

Was there a chance that Joran was going to live if he laid down his weapon?

There was no certainty, there wasn't any solid ground to prove that Sansa or he would live past tonight.

All there was, was the word of a man.

To Joran, Tyrion was an honest man, devious to a fault, but honest and that was enough for him.

With much reluctance, Joran tossed the sword of Meryn across the room to where he wouldn't be able to get it and stood, his hands raised in surrender before the Hand of King's Landing.

"Kill him!" Joffrey screamed out the order to his Kingsguard, the majority of them stepping forth to deal out a death blow.

Watching as his death came closer, Joran thoughts came back to the question if it would have been possible for the Old Gods to find his soul here and bring him back north.

"Stand down," Tyrion yelled, causing the Kingsguard to halt their approach to Joran, "no one, is going to touch the prisoner on pain of death."

"You have no authority over me," Joffrey yelled at Tyrion angrily, "I am the King and I say that he dies!"

"I have the authority," Tyrion countered angrily towards his nephew, "and I say that he lives. The moment we lose Lord Mormont to your little tantrum is the moment that we lose our only other bartering chip to bring an end to this war."

 _"_ I AM YOUR KING," Joffrey bellowed, pointing his sword threateningly towards Tyrion, approaching him with murderous intent.

"And I am the Hand," Tyrion said with as much force as he could muster, "my place is to advise you against doing the most idiotic things possible, and that is what I am doing. The moment you ignore my advice, is the moment when you will be letting the riots begin again, when you will have cow pie after cow pie thrown at you for what you've done. I have given my word that this man and the Lady Sansa, will live, I will not become an oathbreaker all because you feel slighted out of killing the one man who was capable of embarrassing our family. They live, and that is final. Understand!?"

Red in the face, Joffrey looked at Tyrion with enough anger to start a fire and to Joran, it looked as though the boy just might.

Then, the next thing that happened, caught Joran by surprise.

Slamming the sword, he had been holding down onto the stone floor in anger, Joffrey pointed an accusing finger at Tyrion and said through his teeth, "do not think that I am afraid of _you,_ uncle, and don't even think that this is over."

Stomping out of his throne room, his mother, Kingsguard, Pycelle, and the Tyrells in tow, the Boy King left Joran alone with Tyrion, Bronn, Sansa, Shae, and Varys, the first rays of the morning peeking through the windows of the Red Keep.

"Bronn," Tyrion said, pointing to the corps of Meryn Trant and then to Sansa, "Trant won't be needing that cloak anymore, cover the Lady Sansa will you."

"Didn't look that well on him anyway," Bronn said smartly, this being the first time hearing the man's voice for Joran, before he walked over and unceremoniously ripped the cloak from the corpse's shoulders and then covering Sansa with it out of modesty.

Looking at Sansa, Joran could only imagine how the young woman was feeling then and he wished that there was some way for him to comfort her for what wrongfully happened to her.

"Shae," Tyrion said to the serving woman, "take the Lady Sansa to her chambers if you will. She'll need to rest and her presence will not be required for the rest of the day."

Nodding, Shae moved over to the girl and helping her to her feet, lead Sansa out of the throne room and out of Joran's site.

"Bronn," Tyrion said, his voice bringing Joran back to the present morning, "escort Lord Mormont back to his cell if you will, I'll be sure to send someone to rebind his wounds later."

Then, realizing what Tyrion meant, Joran looked down at his torso and saw that there were red spots forming all over his shirt from where all of his wounds were. Fighting Trant and moving excessively had caused the wounds to tear and now they looked to be in need of cleaning and rebinding. If Joran didn't bleed out first.

"Aye," Bronn said, stepping over to Joran and politely gesturing towards the main doors of the Throne room, indicating to the prisoner to make it easier for them both.

Joran, taking the man's indication, turned his back on Tyrion and Varys, and made his way out of the Throne room and back to his cell with Bronn keeping an eye on him.

…

Day 5

Waking up the next morning to the returning light of the sun through the window of his cell, Joran ate his delivered breakfast alone, afterwards he began a rotation of sitting upon his straw bed and pacing the length of his cell for a time before noon came and his usual visitor was expected.

His cell door opening to Tyrion Lannister, Podrick Payne and Bronn, Joran halted in his current pacing to bid his smaller friend, the squire and the sell sword a good afternoon.

"I wish that it was," Tyrion said, looking as though he had been up very early and hadn't had any wine yet today, "sadly, the solutions of this morning's Small Council meeting have brought me a rather large headache."

"How so," Joran asked, taking a seat upon his bed and inviting the Hand to join him.

Accepting the invitation, Tyrion hopped up on the bed, his smaller legs hanging over the edge like a child's would, and said, "after yesterday morning's little fiasco, the rest of the day was discussed as to how we deal with the problem of Dorne allying themselves to your King Stark. And, without coming to a decision yesterday, the topic was further discussed this morning, at the crack of dawn."

"Has there been a decision," Joran asked.

"There has," Tyrion said, placing his face in his hands and rubbing the sleep from his eyes before going on, "today, Loras Tyrell is to ride forth with thirty thousand soldiers to destroy the Young Wolf and the Red Viper, or, to at least halt their advancement to the Capitol if at all possible."

"Do you think that the knight of Flowers will prevail against them," Joran asked, truly curious what Tyrion thought of sending the young man out to fight a war that a boy started.

"I don't know," Tyrion said, removing his head from his hands and looking at Joran, "he's unbeatable in a tourney, probably would have been a terror for us had Renly lived, and he has proven quite the foe upon the Blackwater where he helped save the city. I think if anyone has a chance of saving us from this nightmare, it could be him."

"But," Joran said, feeling as though Tyrion was about to go on with the word.

"But," Tyrion said sadly, "our troubles only get worse with time, and Loras has only been in one battle. In truth, I don't see him coming back to us victorious any time soon. And if Stark or Martell have anything to say about it, he won't be coming back at all."

"The Tyrell's will be devastated if he dies," Joran said, honestly feeling sorry for the family, who were an acting crutch for another who would be despising them if they didn't need them so much.

"The wedding for Joffrey and Margaery will be a grey affair if the worse comes," Tyrion said.

"Can't be as bad as others though," Joran said in jest.

Laughing, Tyrion looked away from Joran and shaking his blonde head of hair said, "I figured you would say something of the like, I just hope that their wedding will be at the very least less red than the one you attended."

"I only wish that I could share your hopes," Joran said, being a man of honesty before anything else, "after what I've seen yesterday though, I believe Margaery would be a better match for someone, with a little more sanity than your nephew."

"If only the world thought the same as you Joran," Tyrion said, patting the larger man on the arm kindly, "then, the wicked people in this world would find themselves wifeless and husbandless to the good people."

Shaking his head in disagreement, Joran said, "there are no good or bad people Tyrion. There are only people and what they are capable of doing with what little power they have. And from what I've seen, you are the exact polar opposite of your nephew, in every which way."

"I thank you for that," Tyrion said, "most would think that I pull the strings connected to that boy's insanity. Dubbing me, the _Demon Monkey_ , as if I hadn't been the first one trying to make their lives better before the Tyrell's came."

"Did you try," Joran asked.

Nodding, Tyrion said, "as hard as I could with what I had. But, even one with as much power as I, can only go unnoticed due to my size."

"If only the people could look past that," Joran said in confidence to his small friend, "they'd see the giant that makes you who you are."

"Well, you would know about giants I suppose," Tyrion said with a smile, "I should probably take your word for it then."

"How is Sansa," Joran asked, before Tyrion could turn the subject towards any other direction.

"She's been better, if I dare say that," Tyrion said, his expression turning dour, "she has a black eye from where my nephew punched her, her cheeks are swollen, but they appear to be looking better today. The outside will heal, but on the inside, I think that she's added another to the list of her hurts at the hands of my nephew."

Running a hand through his unkempt beard that was beginning to gain length, Joran gave a heavy sigh at the news before continuing, "I only hope that she can come back from that, horrible encounter."

"If she can, she'll need your help," Tyrion said, hopping from the bed and back onto the floor.

"What do you mean," Joran asked.

"She asked me if she could be able to keep tending you," Tyrion said, facing Joran, "it would seem that, through all of what she went through, you were never far from her thoughts. When she had heard that your wounds had reopened, she wished to treat you then and there, but I dissuaded her from doing so, lest Joffrey finds another reason to torment her through you."

"She has a kind heart," Joran said, nodding at the thought of Sansa thinking about him, "and wolf's blood like her brother."

"She has more than that I think," Tyrion said, a small smile forming upon his scarred face, "she trusts you, and may even like you from what the birds of Varys hear her singing at night."

"The song they made about me," Joran said knowingly.

"Yes, that song," Tyrion said, before turning from Joran and moving on towards the door, "she'll be here by midafternoon if you were wondering by the way."

Joran had been wondering, and was happy to hear of a time when to expect Sansa.

Bronn and Podrick exiting the cell before the Hand, Tyrion turned around before the doorway to look back at Joran and said, "do you want to know something else about Sansa?"

Looking up to Tyrion from his bed, Joran only listened as the Half Man said, "she's still singing your song."

…

Not long after Tyrion had left him, Joran's cell was soon blessed with the presence of Sansa Stark, with her hand maid Shae following suit.

Looking at the vision standing before him, Joran felt inner disgust at what Joffrey's little tantrum the yesterday had left on poor Sansa. Both of her cheeks were bruised from where the Boy King had viciously slapped her and she had dark bruising over her left eye. Seeing them now, Joran knew he would have to make well on his promise to Joffrey, and take his time with each body part until he was nothing left but a stump of flesh.

"My Lady," Joran said in greeting to Sansa, bowing deeply to his King's sister.

"Please, Joran, just Sansa, remember," the Lady Stark said kindly, waving for Joran to stand up straight.

"Forgive me Sansa," Joran said apologetically, "I had forgotten, and let me extend my gravest apologies again to you, for what happened."

Turning to Shae who had been holding a basin of water along with the fresh bandages, Sansa dipped a rag into the bowl and as she rinsed it out, said, "it truly isn't anything to worry about Joran. I've come to live with the fact that, the King is able to do whatever he wishes to me. Regardless of how it would make him look to others."

Stepping closer to Sansa, Joran spoke in kind words, "it _is_ something to worry about, Sansa. He is a spoiled boy, who knows nothing of hardship and has only lived everyday with privilege that has made him vain to the suffering of others. Your suffering in particular."

Turning to face him, her wet cloth in hand, Sansa said, "it doesn't matter now, what's done is done and, there isn't anything we can do to change what has happened."

Standing in front of her, Joran gently took hold of Sansa's hand and carefully removing the rag from her grasp, wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders and led her over to his bed.

"You are right," Joran said, knowing for a fact that Sansa spoke an intelligent truth, "we cannot change what has happened, but that doesn't mean that we can come back from it, better on the other side."

Sitting her down upon his bed, Joran took his seat next to Sansa and looking at her face to face, began to gently run the wet cloth across her hurts.

"Joran, what are you doing," Sansa asked, a surprised mask upon her face.

"You've been so kind to me Sansa," Joran said, continuing in the task he had set himself to do, "caring for me, thoughtful to my wounds these past few days. Now, I believe that it is my turn to care for you, especially with all that you've been through."

Looking into her eyes then, Joran saw that Sansa's eyes weren't the kind and gentle ones that he had first seen when he had met her days ago. But the eyes of pain and sorrow that spoke thunder in themselves in testament to what the girl had to endure during her time here in the capitol. And, were things different, Joran would burn this place down for her with all but a thought.

"I'm sorry for what they did, and what they've done to you Sansa," Joran said, finding that at present, he had no torch to burn that which had a rotten core, that only soothing words could help the girl before him.

Setting the cloth aside, Joran then took Sansa in his arms in an attempt to take away her painful stare, to bring back the kind one that he had grown to truly love.

Holding her in his gentle embrace, Joran soon felt Sansa's own arms wrap around him before a rack of sobs began to flow into his shoulder from her eyes. Beginning to rock her, Mormont began to coo the Stark girl with a soothing voice that he believed she hadn't heard in months.

Then, Joran said, "it will all be all right, Sansa. Things will be getting better soon. I promise that they will."

And for a long time, Joran and Sansa took comfort in each other's arms.

…

Day 6

Waking up to the last day of rest and healing for him, after breakfast, Joran was met with the sight of Tyrion and Podrick, who so kindly brought all of the gear that the prisoner had requested for his duel for tomorrow.

Putting on the gambeson and then pulling the chainmail hauberk over his head to fall upon his broad shoulders, Joran looked himself over to see find if any of the links of the armor were poor or in need of repair. The many rings of the shirt glistening with the noon sun of the day outside, there appeared to be nothing amiss with the armor and it looked like it would handle well in a fight. As long as that fight didn't turn into a stabbing contest.

"How does it feel," Tyrion asked from Joran's bed, sipping wine from a flask.

Turning to the small man, Joran felt a smile creep onto his face and lifting his arms as if ready to embrace Tyrion, said, "it feels like the second skin that I have been long without these many days, and I feel almost complete."

"Well, technically you are almost complete, you still haven't put on the bracers and greaves."

"Ah yes," Joran said, accepting the pieces from Podrick gratefully and beginning to put them on separately while he spoke, "so, who will I be fighting tomorrow?"

Heaving out a heavy sigh, Tyrion answered, "the Small Council has come to the decision that it will be Sandor Clegane who will be fighting you on the morrow. No surprise there honestly, considering how Ser Loras has gone off to fight off the wolves and vipers."

Tying on his last bracer, Joran said, "that is true. I shouldn't be surprised that it's him. A killer should only fight another killer and if what the tales say are true about Clegane, he is one of the many masters of killing."

"You could say that again," Tyrion said before sipping from his flask and continuing, "he's agreed to fight with only his longsword and a shield, as well as his own dagger considering you having one yourself."

Bending over to start tying on his greaves, Joran said, "I wouldn't want the fight anything but fair. Call me confident, but I believe that it will be a fight that few will ever forget."

"Well, you have to remember, this fight isn't happening on a battlefield," Tyrion said, "your opponent is only going to have eyes for you and you alone, there won't be any distractions that have to make him worry about anyone else who wants him dead, just you."

"Are you saying that I don't know how to duel," Joran asked, standing straight up, both of his greaves on to where they were comfortable."

"All I'm saying is that, Clegane isn't a stranger to one on one fights or the heat of battle," Tyrion said, lifting up his hands in defense, "and you my friend are more known for the battlefield than a dueling arena."

"Point taken," Joran said before turning to Podrick, who presented him with his round shield made of wooden planks devoid of any symbol, "I take it he's never lost?"

"Not that I know of," Tyrion said, taking another swig from his flask.

When Podrick presented him the longsword and the dagger, Joran inspected the feel of the grips of them separately. Finding that the longsword, though half a hand longer than his grip, was much to his favored liking, considering how he had used a similar weapon long before he had taken up Longclaw. And the dagger, though the blade was heavy, had quite the grip on it that Joran felt he could get used to, and he would need to do so quickly.

Handing his three items back to Podrick, who put them all against the wall until, Joran began to take off his hauberk when one of the guards outside of his cell announced a surprise visitor.

Turning to the door to find that Sandor Clegane stood there, almost taking up the entire entrance with his own bulky frame, Joran looked to find the man armed and armored as though the fight was to take place in the very cell where they were standing.

"Could you give us a moment alone," the Hound asked gruffly, the question directed towards Tyrion and Podrick.

"Can I be sure that you won't try to kill him before his due time, Clegane," Tyrion answered with a question.

"If I wanted him dead, do you think I'd be so polite to ask you to fuck off, Imp," Sandor said, his tone turning agitated at the fact that Tyrion didn't trust him, granted he hadn't given the smaller man any reason to.

"I suppose not," Tyrion said.

"It's all right," Joran said, looking back at Tyrion before returning his gaze onto the Hound, "I don't think that he's here for a fight, if he was, we wouldn't be talking."

"He's not as dumb as he looks, Lord Hand," Sandor said, his eyes turning to Joran, who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in height.

"You'd be surprised," Tyrion said before hopping from Joran's bed, "come Podrick, let's leave these two giants alone to talk, civilly."

Leaving the sword, dagger and shield, Podrick followed Tyrion out of the cell, leaving Joran alone with Sandor.

"What do I owe the pleasure of the company of one of the finest killers in Westeros," Joran said with sincerity.

"I've come to only say a few words, before tomorrow happens and I might not get the chance to say what I need to," Sandor said, his gruff voice becoming calmly collected, "I want to extend my gratitude to you, for the death of my brother."

"Most brothers wouldn't even bother," Joran said, crossing his arms over his chest, "most would try sticking me with a blade if they were in your position."

"Most brothers didn't have a brother like Gregor," Sandor said, spitting out the name of the deceased as though it were cursed, "the Mountain was a monster, more than me even though I hate to admit it. He's hurt more people than either you or me could ever hope to match if he were alive, and he wasn't obstinate from hurting his own family, me being the prime example of what he was capable of. Gregor deserved the death he got from you, even though in my opinion you were too quick about it."

"So, your thanking me for killing your kin," Joran asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Aye," Sandor answered the obvious.

"It amazes me sometimes," Joran said.

Confused, Sandor asked, "what does?"

"How cruel you southerners are to each other," Joran answered, walking slowly closer to Sandor, "killing each other for power, wealth, love, or just for the sake of death itself, sometimes I even wonder if we as people are any different from the many animals that we use as sigils for our houses."

"Time and acts of savagery are what make all men monsters and killers," Sandor said flatly, peering at Joran and watching his every move in case threatened, "I would imagine that you can agree with me on that."

Nodding, Joran said, "I do, and I won't deny the fact that, we're all killers at one point or another, it's just a matter of when and where the killing gets done."

Coming to stand before Sandor, looking him straight in the eye, Joran continued, "but it is our choice as men to define why we kill one person or another. Some would kill men for just reasons, if there are any. And like you, there are those who mostly kill out of a need for vengeance. Which presents a problem down the road if you've already dealt said vengeance to the wrong doer."

"And what's that," Sandor asked.

"The emptiness that is left behind by the fact that you can't kill him again," Joran said, "it's haunting, isn't it? That feeling that you can't get rid of, no matter how much wine you drink and no matter how many whores you fuck. A feeling that, you shouldn't feel now that they're gone."

"Are you trying to make me feel as though my life is meaningless now that the bastard's dead," Sandor asked in an accusing tone.

"Is it?"

"Far from it," Sandor answered.

Silence dominating the cell for a time, Joran and Sandor only looked at each other eye to eye until the latter spoke up.

"I came here to thank you for that small kindness," Sandor said, "but that won't keep me from holding back tomorrow."

Nodding, Joran said, "I know and, I wouldn't have it any other way. I welcome the challenge you present and I shall ask for no quarter tomorrow."

"Neither will I."

Extending his hand out to Clegane, Joran said, "let the best killer win tomorrow then."

"Aye," Sandor said before taking Joran's hand in a firm grip and shaking it.

…

With the sun beginning to set on the outside, its last raise of light shining into his cell, Joran sat on his straw bed, contemplating the day to come and if he would survive.

Without a doubt in his mind, Joran knew that it would be a fight where he couldn't afford to hold anything back. Regardless of his injuries, and how much they would pain him during the dual that would determine if he would live or die, Mormont had to give everything he had left if he were to walk away with his life. And right now, all Joran had was but a shadow of the strength he possessed during the early stages of the war.

To him, that would have to be enough.

Removing his eyes from the spot where the sun was shining upon the walls of his prison, Joran looked over to the plate that had held his supposed last meal.

A small chicken roast with some red potatoes and a glass of wine on the compliments of Tyrion before the dawn came was all that Mormont was to have.

It hadn't been much, but coming from Tyrion to him, Joran thought it to be a feast fit for a King on his last day on earth and he appreciated the thought coming from the smaller man.

But, aside from the meal, Joran felt as though his last day was missing one important person who hadn't showed up during the hours of the day as she usually did when it came time for them to see each other.

The day was missing Sansa, and Joran felt as if, he didn't see her before the dawn came, he would go into battle worse on the inside rather than the outside.

It worried Joran, terrified him even, to think that if Sansa didn't come to him one last time, he might leave the world of the living, not being able to show her how he felt about her.

"I am here to see the Lord Mormont," came a woman's voice from beyond the door to his cell, addressing the guards that Bronn had placed there in a kind manner.

Looking to the door expectantly, Joran heard the guards great the newcomer and when the cell door opened, he saw her.

Dressed in a dress of blue silk with sleeves that fell down to her wrists, her hair falling down over her shoulders to her chest, hands together anxiously stood Sansa Stark.

Rising to his feet from his sitting position, Joran formed a smile under his beard as the mere site of the young woman before him brought a light to his heart that felt the same as a bright morning after a cold night.

"Sansa," Joran said, letting out the breath that he felt he had been holding for hours.

"Joran," Sansa said, stepping closer to him as she went on, "I hoped to speak with you before tomorrow came and, ask a favor of you?"

His smile unwavering, Joran took a step towards Sansa and meeting her halfway and standing before her in the center of his cell, he said, "if it is within my power, Sansa, I will see what I can do about your need."

"It is not so much as a need as it is a request, Joran," Sansa said, stepping past Joran, who followed her with his eyes as she looked down to the floor as though she were guilty of a crime, "one that, could put you in danger if I were to ask it."

Curious, yet cautious, Joran stepped up behind Sansa and placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder said, "Sansa, regardless of what it is, it can't be a horrible request to ask of a man who may fall in the morning."

Spinning to face him, Sansa looked up to Joran, her eyes looking up to him pleadingly as she asked her favor, "I beg of you, Joran, spare the life of Clegane on the morrow."

Shocked by the request, Joran felt himself take a step back away from Sansa as he felt a kind of hurt course through him at the thought of the woman who had shown him kindness and tenderness that he hadn't had in months, begging for the life of a killer who would no doubt try and kill him in turn if he held back.

"Sansa," Joran said, gathering his storming emotions and keeping his composure friendly towards the woman before him, "I can't promise to let the Hound live without risking my own life in turn and what you ask-."

"I know that what I ask is hard for you to do, my Lord," Sansa said, keeping her own calm demeanor and holding her own emotions in check before Joran, "but please, if you care for me, find a way to win tomorrow without having to kill Clegane."

Bringing his hand up to his face, Joran rubbed his beard in thought at what Sansa was asking of him, the impossible.

"Sansa," Joran began again, "the only way for me to spare Sandor's life in a trial by combat is only if he yields to me, and regrettably, I don't think that he will ever give up until I'm dead or he is."

"Please Joran," Sansa said, stepping towards him and placing her gentle hands upon his chest while looking up to him with her sweet eyes, "I only ask you to try…he is a friend who's kept me safe here for a time…but so are you, and if you cannot beat him without losing your own life, I will not hold you to my request."

Taking one of her hands in his, Joran held it and looking back into Sansa's eyes said "I will try Sansa, that is all I can promise."

"Thank you Joran," Sansa said, a small smile of her won forming on her beautiful face before she looked away from him to produce something from her dress sleeve, returned her eyes to his as she said, "and there is on other thing that I would ask of you for tomorrow."

Presenting what she had been hiding in her sleeve to Joran, in Sansa's hand was a braided favor made from what appeared to be her own hair.

"I…want you to wear this favor tomorrow Joran, for me," Sansa said, looking at him expectantly, "so that it may bring you some luck in the trial and live…for me."

Taking the favor, Joran's smile broadened at what such a small thing meant. Sansa wanted him to win tomorrow. She wanted him to succeed and she mattered to her if he did.

"Thank you Sansa," Joran said, taking both of Sansa's hands in his own, "and I promise that if there is any strength left in me, I will live for you."

Gently pulling Sansa closer to him, Joran believed that, if he didn't let her know how he felt about her then and there before the dawn came, he might not have another chance to after. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss upon her lips that she did not back away from. And soon, the two were wrapped in each-other's arms as they shared the kiss that spoke louder than words.

…

His cell dark now, Sansa gone and the room cold, Joran looked up to his window to glance out to what few stars he could see, his mind on the morning.

Lost in the dark night outside, Joran was undisturbed when he heard his cell door open to the admittance of his last visitor for the evening.

"Is it a bad time," Varys's voice asked from behind him, the man's perfume dominating the cell with his presence.

"No," Joran said, removing his eyes away from the window and looking to the Master of Whisperers, "in fact, it might just be the last time if the crown has its way."

"True, well then we must not dally then I suppose," Varys said, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe, "I assume that everyone whose come in here has wished you good luck before me?"

"Mostly," Joran said, "and I think that you may be the last one to do so."

"I should be honored then," Varys said, removing his hands from his sleeves and stepping closer to Joran, his hand extended for a hand shake, "I wish you the best of luck tomorrow."

"Thank you," Joran said, taking the eunuch's hand and holding onto it.

When Varys felt that Joran wasn't releasing his hand, he looked curiously to the northman and asked, "is there something else, my Lord?"

"There could be," Joran said, maintaining his hold on the other man, "I was wondering if you could help me in regards to a certain…idea that I have."

…


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 19: A Duel of Killers

 **Hey everybody, sorry I haven't updated this story in a long time, been in a funk like none other and though I've been working on it, I either keep forgetting to post or I just don't have the time. Hope these next couple chapters make up for the crime of making you wait. I OWN NOTHING!**

Sandor

 _After today, I'll make her see me again,_ the Hound thought angrily, _once she sees Mormont's insides, I'll get her back._

Standing in his personal apartments inside of the Red Keep, sliding on the last gauntlet onto his naked hand, Sandor Clegane, now dressed in full armor, allowed his thoughts to reflect one of the most insignificant personalities of men: jealousy.

Nowadays, it wasn't a secret that the Stark girl had feelings for Blood Bear. In fact, it was almost common knowledge that there was a shared connection between them. And after what he had seen in the throne room the other morning when Joran had stepped up to defend the Little Bird, Sandor had come to believe the rumors.

The knowledge that Sandor had only made him angrier than he usually was. At first, he had had half of a mind to go down to the Black Cells and gut the prisoner while he could. But, after a few flagons of wine and a good fuck from an 'independent' whore, Clegane had thought better of it the next day when he had been told he was going to be the one to fight in the Trial.

After hearing the news, the Hound had been pleased to hear that he had been picked until his Little Bird had come to him after she had learned of the same knowledge.

And outside his room, she had begged him to spare Joran's life, saying that if he was ever her friend, he would try.

 _Friend,_ Sandor thought, _there's no such thing in King's Landing._

But, to get Sansa to leave him be, Sandor had told her a little lie and said he would try to keep the Bear man alive.

Soon though, the lie started to hurt _him_ on the inside and that next day, the day before the Trial itself, for the life of him he didn't know why, he had gone down to the damned Black Cells and had spoken civilly with Mormont, even shaking his hand and promising a good fight.

"Humph," Sandor grunted at the memory of the previous day, _killers making promises to each other to try their hardest to kill one another, if that isn't honorable, I don't know what is._

Regardless though of what he had promised Sansa, Sandor would not hold back and let her leave him behind in her heart, not after all that he had already done for her. Protected her. Cared for her. Seven Hells, any command that the Joffrey had given him concerning her, Sandor hadn't even bothered acting out because of his feelings.

Feelings he would have to set aside today.

Placing his sword and long knife into their respected scabbards upon his belt, Clegane then picked up the heather shield he was going to be using for the trial, the one that was as black as his horse, Stranger.

Stepping out of his rooms and into one of the many hallways of the Red Keep, Sandor proceeded to locking his door when he noticed that he wasn't alone in the corridor.

As broad as the daylight of the morning, before him stood the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, dressed in a red velvet dress, flanked by armed Lannister men, her escorts.

"Good morning Clegane," Cersei said in a voice that feigned kindness, her very tone causing a shiver of disgust to creep up Sandor's spine.

Turning the key in the lock to his door, Sandor gave the Lannister cunt a nod and said in greeting, "your Grace."

"How are you feeling today," Cersei asked.

"As healthy as a horse, your Grace," Sandor said, turning fully to face her majesty, "shame I won't be able to say the same about my opponent for today."

"I'm sure that you'll not disappoint, Clegane," Cersei said with a small smile that seemed to pervade her facial features, "as one of the finest swords in House Lannister, I expect no less than perfection from you today."

"I wouldn't call what I do an art, your Grace," Sandor said, placing his free right hand over the long knife at his belt to seem casual.

"What would you call it then," Cersei asked curiously.

"Sport," Sandor said in the gruffest and simple way he could.

"I would imagine," Cersei said, her smile broadening evilly at his answer, "with your family's history, I wouldn't expect you to consider doing anything else than what your good at."

"Yes, your Grace," Sandor said feeling, rather uncomfortable under the staring emerald eyes of the Lannister woman.

"But, I must remind you," Cersei said, her smile disappearing briefly as she spoke, "fail the family that's paid you well for your services today, and you'll find yourself out of a job. Replaced with a killer that can get the task at hand, finished accordingly."

"There aren't many killers out there but me who could stand toe to toe with the likes of Blood Bear, your Grace," Sandor said, boasting for the first time in a long while, "even in his current state, he's a force to be reckoned with. Ser Trant is a testament to what he's still capable of."

"Meryn Trant, wasn't you," Cersei said, her smile almost gloating, as though she had some dark secret of her own that could kill if it were spoken, "nor was he the man I plan on replacing you with should you fail."

"Does this new killer have a name, your Grace," Sandor said, becoming annoyed with the old Queen before him.

"Oh," Cersei said, stepping closer to Sandor and running a hand over the surface of his shield while she spoke, "I wouldn't worry just yet about him, you already have someone else to worry about killing you today. But, believe me when I say this: like Mormont, my new pet is a force to be reckoned with in his own right."

"He sounds almost perfect," Sandor said smugly.

"In a different life, he wasn't so," Cersei said, walking around Sandor rather casually, "he was wild, prone to a temper that scarred his own family in his old life, and a terror to the enemies of his former master. Now though, with a little help from a new friend of mine, Maester Qyburn, he's rehabilitated to full form. A form that will be most desirable to my needs should you fall today."

As the Queen Regent came to a halt behind him, Sandor felt a chill creep over him as Cersei described her new champion to him. It was almost as if she were implying something that he knew was impossible. A dark secret that sounded unnatural to his ears.

"Like I said before, Clegane," Cersei said, patting his armored shoulder gently, "I wouldn't worry about him just yet, just keep him in mind should the worst happen today."

Then, without another word, Cersei Lannister left the Hound standing alone, dumbstruck in the middle of the corridor.

 _She can't be implying that…no, no the Lion bitch is just fooling me. What she's saying, it, it's impossible. He's dead, and he's been dead for weeks now._

Shaking himself out of his stupor, without another thought, Sandor Clegane made his way down the corridor to the arena with an old hatred creeping fire into his veins.

…

Joran

Standing in the center of his prison cell, dressed in full armor, Sansa's favor tied to his wrist, his shield on his arm with sword and dagger upon his belt, Joran looked up to the window of his cell as the first rays of morning shown through the one opening to the outside world he was afforded.

After the previous night's talk with Varys, Joran knew that in order for anything to happen beyond today, was only if he could survive past the trial by combat.

The very thought of the day so long coming had kept the northerner up the entire night, Joran's mind racing with the thought of if he didn't survive against Clegane this day. For though fame and glory didn't matter to him, Mormont couldn't help but to wonder if he were to die, would everything he had done been enough?

That one question tormented him, angered him and somehow, saddened him to think of what he had done with the time he had in the world and if he had lead his life the right way.

As the hours had passed him by without a second thought, Joran had tossed and turned trying to shake the feeling of oncoming failure that plagued him.

And once morning had come, Joran had felt the peak of anticipation as though it were a hot poker set into his brain.

Finding his hands unsteady as he placed his armor upon his body, or while he tied Sansa's favor to his wrist, or even as he sheathed his sword and dagger to his belt, Joran had wondered if his own body were betraying him, expecting him to fail.

Looking up to the window then, Joran had felt the need to look upon the light of the sun, should it be the last he was to see in this world, for nothing was certain in life.

Then, after minutes of standing, Joran lowered himself onto his knees, his gaze never leaving the square window above him, and setting his shield aside, the northman drew his sword.

Placing the tip of his blade down into the stone floor of his cell, holding the hilt of his sword firmly before him, Joran placed his forehead against the cross guard of the weapon and, as though his tongue had a mind of its own, he began to pray.

"Gods," Joran began, almost feeling rather silly at the fact that he wasn't anywhere near a Godswood, he knew that there was no time before they came for him to escort him to the arena and even if he had requested to visit the wood, he expected his captors to not be so lenient as to let him pray. "I don't know if you can hear me, if your there, or if you even care to listen. Regardless, I'll say what I need to and that will be that.

"Today," Joran paused, feeling the words catch in his throat before he forced them out, "could be my last day in this world, if it is, I only ask, you watch over my family, my people, and, the Lady Sansa. For all will need your help in my absence, if I die.

"All these years, you've favored me and my family, so much that you did not allow me to die at the Red Wedding, and that should I fall today, the name of Mormont will live on in history as those who hold their ground in the face of tyranny and roar out any challenge in the face of injustice.

"Now, I only wish that you switch your favor of my life over others, to that of my sisters who survive me and Sansa Stark. For I fear that, without me here, the carrion of the world will pray upon the island of my birth, and I do not want my sisters to face the hardships that I gladly took upon my shoulders to protect our home. Grant them strength should I fall. As for Sansa, it has been so long since she's had someone to care for her as I have come to, and I'm afraid that, should I fail to keep my promise to her to make things better, she'll be worse off than before.

"So, please," Joran said, removing his forehead from his weapon to look back up to window, "be kind to them, as you have to me."

Answered only with silence in his cold cell, Joran sat on the floor for only a few more minutes before rising to his feet.

After saying what he needed to, Joran had to only wait a few minutes more before Bronn, and an escort of gold cloaks, came to get him.

…

Stepping out of the doorway that lead into the arena from the many hallways of the Red Keep, Joran was met by the bright sunlight of day as his foot touched the stone base of the open theatre arena where he and Clegane were to fight.

The setting being round and clear of any debris or obstacles, the arena appeared to be well kept for the blood sport of dueling. Outside of the ring were rows upon rows of seats to accommodate any viewers that wished to attend the day's spectacle of battle. Luckily, there weren't many there to watch, save for the few merchants, random commoners, and the two or three lords and ladies that sat outside of the podium, where only the highest of the privileged were then.

And in said podium, sat Joffrey in the middle of all the rest of the southern leadership that were want to see him dead this day.

Finding new courage in the need to deny them that satisfaction, Joran moved over to where his table was to find Tyrion and Podrick in his corner.

"Beautiful morning isn't it," Tyrion said in an almost sad tone, "pity that blood will be spilt before noon comes."

"Lost faith in me already have we," Joran said with a fake smile of assurance, attempting to sound cheerful about the day and failing miserably.

"No…maybe," Tyrion answered nervously as he looked across the way to see Sandor Clegane entering the arena.

Turning his attention to where Tyrion was looking, Joran saw the Hound dressed in his armor, shield in hand and sword sheathed, looking directly at him.

Returning Clegane's stare, Joran held it until the other man broke to be attended to by Podrick.

"I hope you have a really good plan for your own sake Joran," Tyrion said, bringing Joran's attention back to him.

"Don't worry," Joran said, unsheathing his sword and placing it upon his side table so Podrick could remove the blades scabbard from his belt, "I may be scarred, but I'm not dead."

"Yet," Tyrion added on the end.

"Like I said, don't worry," Joran said with another halfhearted smile.

"It's hard not to worry about a friend," Tyrion said before raising an open hand up to Joran, "I pray I don't lose one today."

Taking the smaller hand in his own, Joran shook it saying, "thank you, my friend."

When their hands parted, after one more look across the way to Clegane, Tyrion stepped passed Joran and said, "come along Pod."

"Yes, Milord," Podrick said, moving to Tyrion's side.

"Lord Tyrion," Joran called after the smaller Lannister.

Turning back to face Joran, Tyrion asked, "yes, Lord Mormont?"

"Should I die, would you pass on a message to Sansa Stark for me," Joran asked, hoping that the fear of dying didn't show in his voice.

"I'll pass on anything you want if it is within my power," Tyrion answered.

"Tell her," Joran began before the sight of Sansa walking across his line of vision towards the podium above stopped him.

She was wearing a dress of green today that shined almost like emeralds in the morning light, her hair fell down freely in the middle of her back and her eyes upon him, looked as beautiful as the rest of her.

"Tell her, I'm sorry if I don't keep my promise and that…I," Joran stopped, feeling unsure about letting on how much he cared for the Stark girl out loud given the presence of a certain King.

"Love her I assume," Tyrion said in a subtle tone, with a mischievous smile to go with it.

"Aye," Joran said with a nod and cough, almost blushing.

"You have nothing to fear Joran," Tyrion said, continuing on his way, "I will pass on the message, you just focus on not dying."

Allowing the conversation to end with that, Joran looked out across the arena to see the Hound prepped for the duel, scabbard off, sword in hand and his shield at the ready.

…

Tyrion

Up at the Podium, taking his seat next to Sansa Stark in the second to last seat in the row of chairs in the box, Tyrion Lannister looked out to the two duelists awaiting the signal to begin the show and thinking about which of them would be feeding the crows today.

Then, removing his eyes from the view, Tyrion turned to Sansa to find the poor girl looking expectantly towards Joran down below.

Noting the worry in the girls face, Tyrion gently placed his small hand upon hers, eliciting a jump of fright from the girl before she turned her attention to him.

"Lord Tyrion," Sansa said, nodding at him in greeting.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion said in acknowledgement of the younger woman, attempting to take the edge off before the fight was to start, "you look lovely this morning."

"Thank you, My Lord," Sansa said, looking down to her lap shyly.

Feeling Shae's glare towards him from behind Sansa's chair, Tyrion carefully continued, moving in closer to Sansa in order to speak in a subtler tone, "I have a message from Lord Mormont for you My Lady."

Looking anxiously back to where Joran was standing, his gaze focused on Sandor, Sansa returned her attention back to Tyrion in order to listen to what he had to say.

Taking the hint to speak, Tyrion said, "he wishes to, apologize if he doesn't keep his promise."

Nodding, Sansa asked, "and?"

"And," Tyrion thought a moment before continuing, wondering if it would be the best time to tell the girl how the man she'd come to care about felt for her in turn, before figuring that now was as good a time as any, "he wanted me to tell you, that, he loves you."

A smile appearing on her lips the moment he said the words, Tyrion felt the Stark Girl's arms wrap around him rather tightly before she whispered, "thank you."

Gently patting Sansa's shoulder, Tyrion said, "you're welcome my Lady, now if you'd please, I don't want to die from suffocation."

When she released him, Tyrion took the time to look over his shoulder down the line of the royal court that were seated next to him, making sure that none of them noticed the transferring of words between he and Sansa.

Luckily, the only one who had noticed was Varys, and as always, his discretion was welcome.

"My Lords and Ladies," came the voice of Grand Maester Pycelle from below them in the arena, bringing Tyrion's eyes to the old man as he made the formal announcement.

"In the sights of Gods, and Men," the white haired man began, "we gather here to ascertain, the guilt or innocence, of this, eh, man, Joran Mormont. May the Mother, grant them mercy, may the father Justice as they disserve, may the Warrior guide the hand-."

"Shut up," Joffrey yelled out unceremoniously down to the old Maester, "let the fight begin before we all become old and grey from hearing such a boring old sack announce all the Gods and Goddesses and what they can do for us today."

And then, the horn blowing at indication from the King, Pycelle made his way from the arena and the fighters, holding each other's stone cold stare, made their way to the center of the arena.

…

Joran

Coming to a stop in the middle of the arena, his sword drawn and his shield hanging low at his side, Joran looked upon Sandor Clegane, he too stopping ten feet from his opponent.

"Clegane," Joran said in greeting to the man across from him.

"Mormont," Sandor grunted in return, "any last words before I send you to your Gods?"

"A few," Joran said pleasantly, "if you wouldn't mind granting me some time to tell them to you, we may begin as soon as I'm done talking."

"From one killer to another," Sandor asked.

"One killer to another," Joran answered with a nod.

"Very well, say what you will, don't take too long though," Sandor said, placing the tip of his sword low as a sign of allowance.

"Thank you," Joran said, lowing his sword as well, "I only wish to make a pact with you."

"There are no pacts between the living and the dead Mormont," the Hound said with a chuckle.

"Hear me out," Joran said before continuing, "I only ask that when our fight is finished here, that whoever is the victor here, keeps an eye on our mutual friend in the castle."

Understanding the words that Mormont was speaking, Sandor nodded and said, "I was doing that long before you showed up Mormont, but if it will help you sleep better in the ground tonight, I swear to keep an eye on our friend."

"I appreciate that," Joran said, getting ready to raise his sword when he was interrupted by the Hound.

"Hold on Blood Bear, I'm not finished yet," Sandor said gruffly, "I let you have your words, now you'll have to let me have mine."

"By all means," Joran said, nodding for the Hound to begin.

"I just have a question for you," Sandor said, his tone darkening considerably, "did you kill my brother?"

"That's common knowledge," Joran said, confused as to why the Hound would ask such a question.

"Tell me how you did it then," Sandor continued, holding his ground firmly and expecting an answer.

Feeling no reason why he shouldn't, Joran answered "I stabbed him in his foot, and then I cut his head off with the valyrian sword, Longclaw. Cut through the meat and bone like it was butter."

Nodding, his shoulders relaxing as though he had been tense, expecting a different answer from Joran, Sandor said, "good, I thought that's how he went."

"Any reason why you don't think he wasn't dead," Joran asked.

Shaking his head, Sandor answered, "never mind now, just hearsay was all, now put up your blade."

"To the best killer then," Joran said, raising his shield up and laying his sword upon the brim of it in a fighting stance, ready for the Hound.

"To the best killer," Sandor said in agreement, slapping the blade of his sword against the front of his heather shield before stepping towards Joran.

The two of them closing the distance between them, Sandor was the first to strike and Joran was the first to parry.

And the vicious dance of blades began.

…

Tyrion

When the swords of the combatants connected in mid-air, Tyrion felt his ears ring with the song the blades made as they connected together.

The duel had begun, and someone was eventually going to die.

Watching as Clegane took the initiative and began to bull rush Joran with his shield, the piece of wood connecting with Mormont's, driving him back a few feet before swinging his sword towards him.

As the blade fell, Tyrion felt his arm being grabbed tightly by Sansa's hand, the girl anxious at the very start of the fight.

When they both saw Joran dodge the sword stroke, causing the tip of the blade to hit the stone ground of the arena, Tyrion felt the iron grip of Sansa loosen, though she kept her hold on his arm and continued to squeeze him with every sword stroke from the Hound, he didn't mind…considering the circumstances.

…

Joran

Attempting a counter against Sandor's previous sword stroke, Joran found his sword blade hit the Hound's shield as he blocked.

Redoubling his attempts, Joran redirected his blade towards Clegane's legs in a feint before aiming his sword at his unprotected head.

Ducking the swing at his head, Sandor made a backhanded swing at Joran's unprotected side.

Twisting his body so the force of the blow would be absorbed by his shield, Joran then threw his shoulder into the Hound's open side, driving him back so there could be room for a sword swing.

Making a horizontal swing at Sandor, Joran's blade made contact against the Hound's shield, stopping the weapon in its tracks.

Knocking the blade away with his own, Clegane viciously redirected his blade to Joran's legs.

Parrying the sword stroke, Joran then thrust his shield edge into Sandor's sword arm, driving the hound back a step. Doubling his efforts, Blood Bear swung his blade and thrust his shield's edge one after another at his opponent. Backing away from Joran and blocking the attacks as they came, Clegane was driven back towards the wall by the barrage of attacks by his opponent.

Not planning to be caught against the wall of the arena, Sandor side stepped and thrusting his own shield at Joran, earned some space between himself and Mormont.

Thrusting his blade at Joran, Sandor made to skewer the northerner.

Parrying the blade away with his shield, Joran made to bull rush Clegane the rest of the way into the arena wall.

Making contact with his opponent, Mormont drove Sandor into the stone wall of the arena and reaching over his shield, attempted to thrust the point of his sword into Clegane's face.

Ducking the over shield thrust, the Hound pushed off the wall with his foot and with the momentum of the force drove Joran back into the center of the arena, affording him a brief reprieve before pressing his attack.

Attacking Joran again, Sandor made a horizontal stroke towards the other man's head.

Ducking the stroke, Joran slashed at the Hound's left leg, his blade connecting and cutting through the armor to draw blood.

Before he could turn away from his opponent to regain some ground, Joran felt the edge of Sandor's shield connect with his temple, knocking him back in the process.

Tasting blood in his mouth and feeling some drip down from a fresh cut upon his head, Joran shook off the pain from the blow and re-balanced himself to continue fighting.

Looking to where he had marked the Hound, Joran saw that the cut had been deep enough to force Sandor to transfer most of his weight to his right foot.

The two of them circling each other, Joran and Sandor watched each movement the other swordsman made, observing how each ones blow had forced the other to slow.

Dazed from the force of the blow from his opponents shield, Joran continued to shake off the after affects, trying to remain undazed by Sandor's attack.

Clegane on the other hand was finding it hard to keep off of his left foot, for though it hurt to stand on it, the man didn't care and used the pain as drive to press his attack.

Doing so with a vicious growl, the Hound attacked with a barrage of hard and fast strokes at Joran.

Avoiding each swing, blocking and parrying the ones he couldn't, Joran looked for an opening that could last long enough for him to move in and take the fight.

Eventually, he found one.

When the Hound raised his sword over his head to make a heavy vertical swing, Joran went for a straight thrust into Sandor's middle.

But, before the tip of his blade could make contact with his opponent though, Joran watched as Sandor moved ever so slightly to the side before slamming his arm and shield over the blade, locking it into place against his side.

Continuing in his swing, Clegane swung down in order to cut Joran's arm off at his swords hilt.

Raising his shield just as the sword fell, his defense absorbing the heavy blow, Joran twisted his sword blade and pulled it out of Sandor's hold.

His actions causing the straps of Clegane's shield to be severed, Joran watched as the Hound threw away the piece of wood angrily and taking his sword in both hands, he began to attack Mormont with hard and quick blows in every direction.

Forced to follow Sandor's blade with his shield for fear of getting struck, Joran couldn't find an opportunity to lower his shield so he could attack in turn.

And with each blow the Hound delivered, Joran watched as piece after piece of his shield splintered away in all directions, littering the arena floor with chips of wood.

Then, with one last heavy horizontal swing, Sandor cleaved Joran's shield in half, barely missing Joran's arm.

Throwing away his half a shield, Joran took his sword in both hands and readied himself to parry any more oncoming blows the Hound thought to deliver.

He didn't have to wait long for a barrage of swings to come his way.

But for every swing Sandor delivered, Joran matched it with a parry and a counter. If Mormont blocked, he would bring his weapon to bear and make a swing or a thrust wherever there was an unprotected part of his opponent. For every counter he made though, Joran's attacks were always met with a parry from Clegane.

The deadly dance continued like this until with a roar, Sandor Clegane gripped his sword with both hands and swinging hard, meant to take Joran's head off.

Meeting the blow with his own blade, Joran expected his weapon to stay the blow easily so that he could be able to counter again.

That was until Clegane's sword shattered Joran's.

Barely out of reach of his opponent's weapon, Joran could feel the tip of Sandor's sword skim by across his cheek, cutting him.

Backing away, Joran looked angrily to his once long sword, now a half of one, and back to his opponent, who smiled smugly at him before speaking.

"Not as reliable as valyrian steel, eh Blood Bear," Sandor said, stepping intently towards Joran.

Drawing the dagger at his belt, Joran concluded to keep the sword, at least for the moment.

"I don't need much to hold my own Hound," Joran said, rolling his shoulders as he waited for Sandor to make the next move.

And he did with a downward vertical swing.

Connecting the dagger and the broken sword together to make a cross, Joran raised the two blades to catch his opponents longsword.

When steel connected, Joran locked Sandor's sword and twisting it to the side wrapped his dagger arm around both of Clegane's arms and with a quick move, he cut the man at the wrists causing him to loosen his hold on the sword.

Relieving Clegane of his weapon, Joran cast the weapon aside and twirling his broken half sword cockily in his right hand, looked on to Sandor as he snarled at him and said, "it doesn't take a sword to kill a man."

"You're right," the Hound said before taking a handful of blood and throwing it in Joran's face.

Blinded temporarily, Joran got the wind knocked from his lungs when Sandor tackled him to the ground.

Losing hold of his broken sword and dagger when he made contact with the stone earth, Joran's vision returned to find Sandor kneeling over him, drawing his own dagger.

Flipping the blade in his hands, Clegane made to stab it down into Joran's chest.

Catching the Hound's wrists with his hands, Joran briefly stayed the daggers fall before it continued its decent, despite his attempt at delaying it.

Weakened from his injuries from the Red Wedding, Joran struggled against the strength of Sandor as the tip of his blade descended dangerously closer to his chest.

Grunting in protest against his opponent, Joran looked down to find the daggers edge almost touch the rings of his chainmail hauberk.

His previous fears resurfacing from earlier that morning, Joran felt terror grip him. It was not the fear of dying that took hold of Mormont, but the fear of what horrors would come after his death. The fear that all he had built, for his family, for his people, would fall apart without his strength to hold it all together.

Soon, with those thoughts alone, that fear was replaced with a fire that Joran had not felt since his fight to live at the Red Wedding.

In the place of fear, there was rage.

With a vicious growl, Joran pressed the dagger away from him with all of his might, raising his opponent off of him, just enough for him to move.

Taking his chance, Joran raised his hips from the earth, shooting Clegane further up from the ground and then with a twist of his hips and a pull of his hands, he threw the Hound from atop him.

Rolling away from Sandor to where his dagger lay on the ground, Joran returned it to his hands and standing back up to his feet, found his opponent waiting for him.

Closing in on each other, Joran and Sandor began to thrust and slash viciously at each other, both of them trying to draw more of each-other's blood.

Protecting the insides of his arms, Joran received a vicious cut to his left shoulder. In retaliation, he then thrust his blade into Sandor's bicep, piercing own mail. Retracting the blade, Joran watched as a fountain of blood began to usher out of the open wound.

Ignoring the wound, Sandor retaliated by thrusting his blade horizontally towards Joran's face.

Catching his opponent's wrist with his own, Joran made a counter thrust towards the eyes of the Hound.

His blade stopped when Sandor grabbed his own wrist, Joran twisted his other arm around and locking the Hound's weapon hand to his side, began to drive Clegane back towards the wall of the arena.

Slamming Clegane's back to the wall, Joran tried to put all of his weight behind his dagger to try and get it into the Hound's face.

Before the tip could even come close to him though, Sandor threw his head forward into Joran's face.

The force of the blow causing him to stumble backwards, Joran released the Hound's arm and re-centering himself, prepared for a counter attack from his opponent.

It came when Sandor charged, slashing towards Joran's face.

Dodging Clegane's first fore slash, Joran then caught his opponents arm on the back slash.

Twisting his body with the arm, Joran slammed Sandor face first into the ground while keeping a hold on his arm, locking it down.

"Drop the dagger," Joran said, pressing dangerously on the Hound's elbow, "or I'll break it."

"Fuck off, Mormont," Sandor said as he tried to press himself up from the ground with his other arm.

Slamming his weight down on Clegane's back, forcing him flat to the ground, Joran warned, "don't tempt me Clegane, even killers need both their arms."

"Fuck you," Sandor yelled from the ground.

Considering actually breaking it for a moment, Joran thought twice on it.

"Listen to me," Joran said, lowering his voice so that only the Hound could hear him, "I have a proposition for you that I would like you to consider."

"This is a fight, not a damned negotiation, Mormont," Sandor growled into the ground.

"Here me out," Joran continued, "I have a plan that could benefit the both of us _and_ our mutual friend for the better if you would just hear me out."

Looking up at Joran, his face a grimace of anger, Sandor said, "…I'm listening."

…

Tyrion

"What are they doing," Sansa asked.

"I don't know," Tyrion said, puzzled at the halt of the fight between Joran and Clegane.

Looking down at the two warriors, seemingly in deadlock, Tyrion began to hear a confused murmuring from the gathered few men and women who came to witness the trial.

All of them sharing in his own puzzlement.

"Bronn," Tyrion asked his sell sword companion standing behind him, "do you know what is going on?"

Shaking his head, Bronn answered, "don't know, but it looks like Mormont's got a good hold on Clegane's arm, might end up breaking it if he doesn't yield."

"The Dog will never yield," Joffrey said in annoyance at the deadlock before them all, "he knows it would displease me if he did."

"Well, if it were in between losing use of his arm and angering you, your Grace," Tyrion retorted, looking to his nephew, "I think you should be prepared for some disappointment."

Shifting his gaze to a blank faced Varys sitting right next to him, Tyrion wondered how even the Spider could be unsurprised by the turn of events.

"Lord Varys," Tyrion said in a subtle tone when his nephew's eyes were directed to his future wife, who was sharing her bafflement with the boy, "you wouldn't know anything about how this deadlock came to be would you."

"I fear I wouldn't, Lord Hand," Varys said without turning away from the two fighters in the arena, "I'm as surprised as you are that this has occurred."

 _I doubt that,_ Tyrion thought, still believing the Master of Whisperers to be too well composed for his liking before looking back out to where the Hound and Joran were deadlocked.

He noticed then that, in hushed voices, the two of them were speaking.

…

Joran

"Do you understand," Joran asked after telling Sandor what he meant to do.

"You're fucking mad," Clegane said, shocked at what Joran had just told him.

"Not the first time I've heard that," Joran said, keeping his head low to hide their conversation, "but that doesn't give me an answer."

Huffing into the stone ground, Sandor took a moment to think about what he had just been told before turning his burned face up to Joran again to give his answer.

…

Tyrion

"Are we just going to wait all day for one of them to move," Joffrey said angrily through his teeth.

Before Tyrion could advise his nephew to keep his pants on, there came a noise from where the fighters were in the arena.

"I YIELD!"

A gasp of shock erupted from the spectators in the stands, not from the words, but the voice they belonged to.

Watching from the podium, Tyrion saw Joran release Sandor Clegane and outstretching a hand, helped the other man to stand on his own feet.

The two of them turning to face the podium where the royal party sat looking down on them, Tyrion listened to what the two of them had to say.

"I yield," Sandor Clegane said again for all to see that the words belonged to him.

"WHAT!" Tyrion heard Joffrey scream, leaping from his seat angrily.

"I give this fight to Joran Mormont, your Grace," Sandor said, looking up unafraid to the blonde king, "he allowed me the choice to submit to him, as is the right of the combatants to do in a Trial by Combat."

"Dog," Joffrey yelled down at his servant, "I command you to continue the fight, and kill that bastard, now!"

"He won fairly, your Grace," Sandor said, glaring up at the boy, "and in the sight of Gods and Men, I give him the victory and his life. Even you cannot command me to revoke my defeat, for it is final before all here.

"You-!"

"—Are quite right," Tyrion said, standing from his seat to stop his nephew from making a fool of himself, "Clegane. You may yield, as is your right as a combatant in this trial, but doing so, you give this man, Joran Mormont, his life. Absolving him of all crimes in the process. Do you understand?"

"I do, my Lord Hand," Sandor said with a nod of assurance to all present.

"Then," Tyrion said, looking down to the royal procession, all of their eyes on him, waiting expectantly for his next words, "although, this is a first in many Trials held in Westeros, I see no reason why _two_ men cannot walk out of the arena with their lives intact.

"By the Laws of Westeros, and the standing rules of Trial by Combat," Tyrion continued, knowing that everyone there was looking at him, "you may both go, with Joran Mormont a free man."

The angry shouts from the royal party rang in Tyrion's ears, all the way back into the Red Keep.

…


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 20: Moonlit Coups

Joran

At the strike of midnight, the trial over and his new wounds dressed, Joran, in a new apartment within the Red Keep afforded him by Tyrion after the victory earlier that day, along with a guard detail outside his door, stood beside his empty fireplace, expectantly waiting for his guest.

It had taken hours of convincing the man the previous night to help him, and truth be told, Joran hadn't expected him to do anything that would threaten his life.

But, like many people, Joran didn't know the man.

When he had first proposed the plan of escape to his acquaintance, Joran had gone into explicit detail as to how he had meant to begin, for an assurance to the man in order for him to help him.

First, there had to be the promise that the man would actually act out his own part, which he had assured Joran that he would so long as the plan fell well into place.

Second, there was the matter of surviving the day and adding another body to the plot that Mormont had in mind. Although the Hound was a rather unlikely choice in the eyes of his confidant, Joran had assured the man, that if what he had told him about how Clegane protected Sansa before his arrival was true, the man would have no trouble turning to help the girl again.

Then, the third and more important part, was how Joran was going to repay the man for his service in the end if the cargo made it out alive.

When Joran had asked, the confidant had only scoffed and told him that he needed a reason to get away from it all for a while, so why not.

At some point during his time after the trial, Joran had wondered at the man's sanity and his own.

His thoughts were confirmed when his fireplace opened up, and said man walked into his room in robes of silk and perfume.

"Hello Lord Mormont," Varys the Spider said with a sly smile on his face.

"Evening Varys," Joran said with a nod, "I take it your cold feet have left you?"

"Yes, well, that performance you and Clegane put on this morning was quite…warming, so to say," Varys said, producing a longsword and a dagger from within the fireplace.

"I take it that you found Clegane," Joran said, placing the items upon his belt.

Waving for Joran to follow him into the fireplace tunnel, Varys answered, "I did, and like you told me, he was ready and willing to jump at the chance to get Sansa Stark out of King's Landing, like you had told him."

Ducking down into the tunnel that had produced Varys, Joran followed the balled man into darkness.

As they began making their way through places where only Varys knew where to go, Joran continued to speak, "I figured he might, considering how much Sansa begged for me not to kill him the other day. It would seem that he made an impression on her."

"Not jealous, are we, Mormont," Varys asked playfully.

Shaking his head, Joran said, "no, if I were her I would've found someone just like Clegane to hide behind so I wouldn't be hit anymore. Sadly, she kept getting hit after he found her instead."

"I figured you would say something of the sort," Varys said drolly, ducking under the lowered stone roof as it sank further to the ground.

Hitting the roof with his forehead, Joran groaned angrily and rubbed the tender spot as he kept pace with Varys.

"Ow, I take it that, you have your own arrangements to escape King's Landing when you've finished helping us," Joran asked.

"In fact I do," Varys said, never looking back at Joran, "there is a trade ship setting sail this evening into Essos. I have a friend in Pentos who will be receiving me before I make my way to my next destination."

"Which would be?" Joran inquired.

"In time, you may find out, Lord Mormont," Varys said before turning a corner.

"When we spoke the other night," Joran went on, believing that silence wouldn't help him see any better, "I had half expected you to turn my offer down, considering my position."

"I almost did," Varys said in answer, "but, for though you are a poor lord, Joran, you are quite a man unto your own."

"I believe we're beyond flattery Varys," Joran said, "why did you agree?"

"Let's just say that, although I rather enjoy this country, and want to see it prosper," Varys began explaining, "I cannot see myself doing anything but adding to the fire that Joffrey's started, considering how the Lord Baelish is gone, he and his queen mother will be requiring more from me that, I don't feel inclined to give."

"So, you want an escape," Joran asked.

"A reprieve, actually," Varys went on, "for though I do not like where Westeros is at presently, after things have quieted down, I plan on returning with a new patron. One who will bring a new era of peace to Westeros once she is shown the way."

"She?"

"All in good time, Joran," Varys said, "all in good time."

"Very well then," Joran said, feeling himself bending over more than he would like and less than he disserved to be in the cramping tunnels, "how much further do we need to go before we're where we need to be?"

"Not much further," Varys answered before coming to a barred doorway, "when the Targaryens built these tunnels, I found them quite the puzzle to go through in my free time here in King's Landing."

"I would imagine anyone with your mind would find any puzzle interesting Varys, regardless of where they are," Joran said, while Varys unlocked the door and opened it.

"I'm flattered that you would think of me as so complex, Mormont," Varys said, stepping through the doorway.

Following him through, Joran went on, "is there any other way to see you as other than complex, Varys?"

"No," Varys said with a chuckle.

After that, they continued in darkness for a time before Joran spoke up again, having no taste for silent, darkness and a tight space.

"Is there another reason why you agreed so easily to come to my aid," Joran questioned.

"Well, there was one other reason," Varys said before making a final turn.

Making the turn after his guide, Joran saw a dim light at the end of the tunnel and a door there just like the one that had been passed by before.

"The reason is that I can trust you to end this war, Joran Mormont," Varys said when they came up to the door and began to unlock it, "as quickly as possible. We both know the fastest way to peace and I see you as a man who respects…a natural order of things, like myself. And considering what has recently happened, that won't be too hard for you to manage bringing peace to this burned land of yours."

"You have a lot of faith in me," Joran said, a little disturbed by the fact.

"Of course," Varys said, pushing the gate open, "is there a reason I shouldn't."

Stepping out of the tunnels and into the light, Varys and Joran found themselves inside a stable with two horses saddled, ready to transport their intended cargo.

"You followed my instructions down to the letter," Joran said, smiling at Varys, "you really are the man to come to."

"Naturally," Varys said, before two hooded figures in cloaks stepped out from the shadows of the stable to present themselves to the newcomers.

"Joran," came the familiar voice of Sansa from underneath her hood, moving over to Joran and embracing him in a tight hug.

Wrapping his arms around Sansa, the feeling of her body pressed against him sending butterflies throughout his stomach, Joran held her for a moment before letting her go so he could look down at her.

"It is good to see that you are here Sansa," Joran said, smiling at the girl before him, "I was afraid that you may have been delayed."

"Thanks to my guide, I wasn't," Sansa said, looking over to Sandor, who only stood tall and resolute at the sight of the two northerners.

"I'm glad," Joran said, leading Sansa over to a horse before turning back to her and continuing, "but, I'm afraid that our meeting here will have to be briefer than I would like it to be."

"What do you mean," Sansa said, confused at what Joran was saying.

"Sansa," Joran said, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder, "I am sorry, but, this is as far as I go tonight."

"What?" Sansa said, aghast at Joran's words.

"The deal I made with Varys and Clegane, it was only made to get you out of King's Landing," Joran explained, "for though I would like nothing more than to leave with you, I need to stay here and make sure that your brother has someone who can get him inside the city."

"But, your promise," Sansa said, tears beginning to well up in her eyes, "you said-."

"That things would get better," Joran finished for her, lifting his left arm before pulling down his sleeve to show her the favor she had gifted him for the day's earlier events, "and I can only guarantee that they will for you, Sansa. Sandor will be with you to guard you on your way to your brother to the west. When you reach him, I will need you both to relay a message to him for me so that he may be able to make a move to end this war once and for all."

Telling her what he needed Robb to know, upon his last word, Joran was embraced again with a tight hug from Sansa, who cried into his chest as he held her.

"I'm sorry Sansa," Joran said, "if there were any other way, I would be going with you now. But, no one can do this but me."

Parting from him, Sansa looked up to Joran and wiping away her tears said, "I…must ask one final favor of you then, Joran."

"Anything, Sansa," Joran said, looking down at her.

Before she said anything, Sansa raised herself up to her tiptoes to plant a kiss on Joran's lips, hers tasting as sweet as blue berries against his own.

Ending the kiss, Sansa looked up at Joran and said, "promise me, that you will be alive when we come."

Taking her small hands in his own, Joran nodded and said the words, "I promise you, Sansa Stark, I will be alive and well when you come to get me."

With that, Joran helped Sansa into her saddle and making his way over to Clegane, who looked sourer than usual in the dark, he spoke to his fellow killer.

"I expect finding the army won't be too difficult for you Clegane?"

Turning away from his own horse, Stranger, Sandor looked at Joran and said blatantly, "no, what will be difficult is making it past the Tyrell forces still about in the Reach between here and the northern army."

"I trust you'll be able to handle yourself if something should go wrong," Joran asked.

"Aye, I will, and no harm will come to the little bird on my watch," Sandor said, knowing that Joran would tell him to keep her safe, even though he didn't need to.

"I'll hold you to that Clegane," Joran said, looking straight into the eyes of a man who would've killed him earlier that day had he been wrong to judge that the Hound would be on his side for Sansa.

"I expect nothing less, Mormont," Sandor said, staring back.

Raising a hand, Joran extended it out to shake Clegane's, "then this night, let us not part as adversaries, but as allies for the sake of Sansa."

Staring at the hand for a moment, Sandor hesitantly took it and the both of them shaking, he nodded in understanding.

Releasing the man's hand so that he may mount his horse, Joran looked back to Sansa who looked down from atop her own expectantly.

"Whatever happens, whatever you hear behind you tonight Sansa," Joran advised, "don't look back until you are far enough away."

Nodding in affirmation, Sansa turned her gaze away from Joran and with a small spur, she and her horse followed Sandor and Stranger out of the stable and into the moonlit sky.

"How romantically sad," Varys said, his hands in his sleeves, his gaze following after the two as they disappeared into the night, "a loving couple parted because of a man's last duty in a devastating war."

"Between you and I Varys," Joran said, looking to the Spider, "it is for the best that she isn't here when I begin going to work within the city. Without her here, I can work without those in the Red Keep dangling her over my head."

"I trust that you have a plan in mind," Varys asked, producing a hooded cloak and a black scarf to Joran.

Accepting the items, Joran wrapped the scarf around his neck and testing the fabric so that it could cover the lower part of his face, found it satisfactory to disguise him.

Pulling the cloak over his shoulders, as Joran tied it in place, he spoke, "yes, as a matter of fact I do."

"Pray tell," Varys inquired, "do I even want to know?"

Shrugging, Joran said, "for the sake of our friendship, Varys, I'd rather you not know."

"Very well," Varys said with a nod in agreement before stepping towards the entrance of the stables, positioned conveniently outside of the walls of King's Landing, Joran following him, "I have a ship to catch anyway, and whatever explanation you would give me would only make me late for my appointed departure."

The two of them stopping under the night sky, the land around them illuminated by the light of the moon, both turned to face each other and outstretching his hand, Joran said, "don't let me keep you from where you want to be, Varys."

"I appreciate that, Joran," Varys said, taking Joran's hand and shaking it.

"I'll pray to the Gods for your safe journey," Joran said when their hands parted, "and that they may help you find whoever you're looking for."

"And I shall pray for a well won peace on your part, Mormont," Varys said with a smile before walking passed Joran and making his way to where the docks of Black Water Bay were, leaving the northerner to stand alone in the dark for a time.

Alone to his own devices, turning to the open gates of the sleeping city before him, Joran raised the hood of his cloak over his head and lifting the scarf so that it covered the lower half of his face, he began to make his way towards the capitol, a shadow in the night that would be needed in order to end the war.

…


	22. Chapter 22

**To my fellow fanfiction readers and writers, lately I haven't been updating my story as much as I would like. And so, I have been leaving you all without something to read on my part. For that, I am sorry. It has been a trying time these last few months, with work and school piling up on my free time that I would like to use doing what I love. Write. So, for now, I am going to be discontinuing this story and I will probably pick it up again when the time is right. When I do though, it will be to rewrite it, not to continue where I left off originally. Analyzing my own work and berating myself for the mistakes as well as lack of creativity, I believe that I could do better. So, once I have free time, and when I'm not working on my own book, I will come back to Fanfiction and remake, The Coming of The Bear. If it is a letdown to those of you who like the current story, I do apologize for wasting your time. For the encouragement, I have received from each and every one of you readers out there, I thank you for your support and I hope to come back, improve on my characters, the plotline, and the text/grammar of the story.**

 **Sincerely**

 **Norsebjorn**


End file.
